


The Rising of Thanatos

by rev02a



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/M, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-13
Updated: 2020-07-13
Packaged: 2021-03-05 03:20:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 16
Words: 85,381
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25247545
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rev02a/pseuds/rev02a
Summary: What if the prophesy to destroy the Dark Lord had been a little different? Sirius was the omen of death after all.Copied/reposted from LJ from 2008-2009.
Relationships: James Potter/Lily Evans Potter, Remus Lupin/Peter Pettigrew (Unrequited), Sirius Black/Remus Lupin
Comments: 4
Kudos: 30





	1. Chapter One

**Author's Note:**

> Copied from my LiveJournal.
> 
> Long considered my opus... written in 2008 - 2009. 
> 
> I wrote this during a point in my life when I was walking away from my faith. I came to terms with my atheism, but I was like 22 at this point and still a mess. The religious commentary throughout was an attempt to harness how I felt.
> 
> Betaed by some of the best humans on the planet: Michelle and Sarah.

_"Hear me, O Thanatos, whose empire unconfined extends to mortal tribes of every kind. [...] Not youth itself thy clemency can gain, vigorous and strong, by thee untimely slain. In thee the end of nature’s works is known, in thee all judgment is absolved alone. No suppliant arts thy dreadful rage control, no vows revoke the purpose of thy soul. O blessed power, regard my ardent prayer, and human life to age abundant spare."_ (Orphic Hymn 87 to Thanatos, trans. Taylor, Greek hymns C3rd B.C. to 2nd A.D.)  
  
  
_January 11, 1981_  
  
The Canterbury Cathedral is immense. It stands white against a blue sky, like something from a fairy tale. Inside, tall windows let in long squares of sunlight but do nothing for warmth. Sirius finds that he needs to keep his coat on inside the building. The soaring ceilings hold no heat. He wanders through the upstairs, pausing to look into each chapel and give a moment of respect to the dead settled into the walls. In time, he ambles into the crypt, pulling his scarf closer and tucking his hands into his pockets.  
  
He has been exiled to this solidarity for fifteen days, seven hours, and thirteen minutes. He’s had no choice, really; he could have argued with the decision to send him into hiding, but there was no value in such a verbal row. Dumbledore always got what he wanted in the end.  
  
What Dumbledore wanted, it appeared, was for him to contemplate his sanity for a fortnight and then find some sort of comfort here in this ancient building. Here he was in the company of the dead whose names were etched in the stones of the cathedral. He wonders, not for the first time, what it takes to be deemed “worthy” of the honor of being placed under a stone in the floor. Surely this woman and her husband at his feet, and those whom slept in that column to his left, were truly devout.  
  
He could not be lain here; he is not one among the pious. Wizards are not typically a religious people. Many find there is no need for God and his absolution when one can conjure one’s needs. Regardless, Sirius pauses before the self-serve prayer candles. His eyes linger on the small white tape that reads “ _2 CANDLES 50P_ ” and he wonders what they would do with a Sickle instead.  
  
Then a long, slender-fingered hand is reaching past him and dropping a large silver coin into the box. Sirius is transfixed at the sight of that hand. He knows that hand.  
  
Its owner takes two candles and hands one to Sirius.  
  
“Say a prayer for me, pilgrim,” a warm, gentle voice says softly.  
  
Sirius knows that voice. It is the voice he would know awake or asleep, as its owner has often talked with him in life and in dream. He finds himself raising his eyes to meet golden irises and a smile, one given to strangers, not to his lover. Sirius reminds himself that they are to be strangers to any onlooker, so he returns with a gruff “thank you.”  
  
Sirius watches Remus walk away, with light, careful steps. Sirius follows him, hoping not to appear impatient. Shortly, he finds that Remus has settled into a pew of the chapel honoring those lost in the Muggle World War I. It is strangely fitting, he thinks; just like those thousands of men, the wizarding world is perched on the edge of war—the extent of damage no one yet knows. Remus’s candle stands brightly lit and melting before a wreath of flowers.  
  
Sirius lights his candle from the flame of Remus’s candle, smiling as he does so. This is the way it is; Remus gives him everything, his hope, his love, his very life come from Remus. He places his tiny taper next to Remus’s. He steps back and takes in the sight of the two tiny candles attempting to light the dark arches of the Romanesque crypt. He hopes that their own plight against Voldemort does not seem this hopeless.  
  
He moves with venerated respect and eases into the pew in front of Remus. Sirius picks up a Bible from its sheath inside a pew and pretends to read. Remus is leaning forward, his hair pouring over his face. For all purposes, he appears to be in prayer.  
  
“Hello, Padfoot,” he says gently.  
  
Sirius smiles.  
  
“Hello, Moony.”  
  
“I’ve been tailed all day. I don’t think I’ve managed to lose him yet; don’t turn around.” Remus’s voice is hard now. Sirius is concerned how wary he sounds.  
  
“How are you?” Sirius whispers, turning his head so that he practically speaking into his shoulder.  
  
“Tired. I’m so very tired, Sirius.”  
  
Sirius wants nothing more than to turn around and gather his lover into his arms. He wants to take Remus home and care for him. Remus deserves to be lying in bed, sipping freshly brewed tea, and laughing as Sirius reads _the Daily Prophet_ articles to him with his best impression of the Minister of Magic. Instead, here they are, unable to even properly look at one another while speaking. Sirius is getting tired of hiding.  
  
“The moon is the day after tomorrow,” Sirius says, with the same tone he would use as if he were announcing the time.  
  
“I’ll be fine.”  
  
“I want to be with you.”  
  
“We’ll see,” Remus says shortly.  
  
Sirius can hear the varied emotions in Remus’s voice. The prominent one speaks of practiced authority and indifference. The other, however, is a tremor, the part of Remus who wants Sirius with him as well.  
  
“When am I coming home?” Sirius whispers, his desire to return to the small life they’ve carved out for themselves evident.  
  
Remus is silent for a long moment.  
  
“Danny Longbottom is dead.”  
  
Sirius closes his eyes. The silence of this place is tightening around him. The dead, with whom Danny Longbottom now stands among the ranks, wait in this crypt. They swarm into that tiny chapel, collapsing the air and holding Sirius fast.  
  
“Then I’ve been marked his equal.”  
  
Remus’s silence answers him.  
  
Sirius opens his eyes and finds that his fingers linger on the story of Jesus in a boat with his disciples. The men in the boat are terrified as a storm thunders around them, tossing their small ship on hard waves. Jesus sleeps through the insanity until one of his disciples wakes him. The men are terrified for their lives, fearing they will drown. Jesus, however, rebukes them. He tells them that they have no faith and then, without magic, but with authority, calms the very sea.  
  
“I love you,” Sirius says, with his own authority, and the dead retreat.  
  
“Look at me,” Remus whispers, his voice desperate.  
  
Sirius turns in the pew, looking to most as if he is simply getting more comfortable with his reading. He lifts his face slightly and meets those beloved golden eyes peering out from between tawny locks.  
  
“Say it again,” Remus begs, still leaning in prayer, and Sirius cannot deny him his plea.  
  
“I love you, Remus.”  
  
Remus’s eyes flutter closed and his face softens. He appears to be savoring the words, much like he savors a bite of Honeyduke’s Finest in the reddish pink wrapper. Sirius’s heart clinches at this and he cannot stop himself from renewing the vow.  
  
“I love you, Remus, it will always be you.”  
  
Remus leans closer, as if he wants to rest his forehead on Sirius’s shoulder. Sirius wants to take him into his arms and hold him. Both men restrain themselves.  
  
“Death Eaters attacked the Longbottoms. They were in hiding. Danny was at his mother’s. Augusta and he were killed. Frank and Alice were tortured when they tried to defend Danny. They’re alive, but they’ve… they’ve lost their minds, Sirius.”  
  
Sirius swallows. He wants to tell Remus that he loves him again. He wants the power of that emotion, of his love, to force away these terrible truths.  
  
“Alice had a baby just before Lily,” he says instead.  
  
“The baby is fine. Dumbledore has hidden him somewhere. There’s no one to raise the kid now.”  
  
Sirius leans into the pew back, closing his eyes again.  
  
“Anyone else? Have they gotten---“  
  
“---There was an attack on Diagon Alley again two nights ago. Seven people were killed.”  
  
Sirius lets his eyes reopen.  
  
“Sirius,” Remus says heavily, “they’ve infiltrated the Ministry. Moody thinks it’s only a matter of time…”  
  
“How can all of this have happened in a fortnight?” Sirius asks incredulously.  
  
“Death Eaters haven’t stopped their toil just because we sent you into hiding,” Remus mummers as he runs his hand along the worn wood railing at Sirius’s back.  
  
Sirius notices a stripe of silver mixing with Remus’s feathery brown hair. It was not there a few weeks ago. He longs to brush it through his fingers and somehow make it disappear. The strain is not good for Remus; he is a strong young man, yet the wolf will cut his life shorter than most wizards. Remus does not need something else to abbreviate his days.  
  
There is an echoing clang from somewhere outside their chapel. It sounds like a metal chair being dropped against the stone floor. Both men straighten back to the alertness they’d abandoned for a few moments.  
  
A breath passes. Sirius turns the rice paper pages, filling the silence.  
  
“If they take the Ministry?” he asks.  
  
“The Order will work ten times harder.”  
  
Sirius snorts, irritated, “I was hoping for some specifics, you prat.”  
  
A man enters the chapel. His patent leather shoes make a brisk tap-tap on the stone floor. He bows his head over his candle, whispers a prayer, kisses the wax, and lights it. He places the candle in the holder, spaced far from Sirius and Remus’s pair. The man repeats the same process with his second candle and then houses next to his first. Sirius continues to read, turning a page slowly, as if he is finishing the last lines of the previous page.  
  
Once the page is fully turned, the man who kisses his prayer candles has snapped his wand toward Sirius and Remus. The curse dies on his lips, as two twin spells ambush the Death Eater. Sirius pushes the Bible out of his lap and shoves his wand back into his sleeve.  
  
Behind him, Remus lowers his wand, hand shaking.  
  
Sirius casts all fear of being seen aside and grabs Remus. The pew is digging into his middle, but he can’t help himself, he hasn’t held this man in days. He clutches Remus to him, kissing his cheeks and his mouth. Remus clings to him, returning his kisses with fervor. While they are reunited, Remus reminds them of their task.  
  
“Sirius,” he whispers between kisses, “let’s deal with the Death Eater.”  
  
Sirius nods and breaks their embrace. Remus moves to their foe, towering over him. Sirius walks to the entrance of the chapel, slowly drawing his eyes around the rooms, looking for others. No one else is in the crypt.  
  
He turns quickly when he hears the sound of dragging cloth. Remus is pulling the man back behind the pews. He is hidden to anyone whom is not directly beside the altar.  
  
“Not much to deal with, eh, Moony?” Sirius jokes, gesturing to the dead man.  
  
Remus straightens and walks to Sirius’s side.  
  
“It’s less gory than I’ve seen this week,” Remus says, handing Sirius the man’s wand.  
  
Sirius clasps the dark wood and puts it into his coat while questioning, “Missions, I take it?”  
  
“Not here. Let’s go, Pads,” he commands.  
  
Sirius glares at the option of being commanded, but like every moment since he has left his home, he is running blind. He remains completely helpless to the trustworthliness of his friends.  
  
He submits to Remus and they leave the cathedral, exit through the gift shop, and hike down a cobble stone street. Remus leads them with a quick stride. Sirius matches him step-for-step as they duck through alleyways and around corners. Remus stops abruptly in a shadowy side street.  
  
“Do you have your belongings?” he asks.  
  
Sirius pats his pocket.  
  
“All of them?” Remus asks again, eyeing the pocket.  
  
“Yes, sir,” Sirius says, with a mock salute.  
  
“Good, then we’re off.” Remus begins their trek with renewed vigor but without his customary eye roll. Sirius is beginning to worry that this trip is more serious than he is aware of.  
  
They arrive at the train station and Remus only pauses to see the “arriving train information” chart before stepping up and ordering two single tickets to the train arriving the soonest. He hands a ticket to Sirius and they briskly exit to the tracks.  
  
The train arrives and they board. Remus forces Sirius to walk ahead of him, guiding Sirius with his hand on the small of Sirius’s back. When they have reached the last seat in the last car, Remus shoves Sirius into it. Sirius scrambles into the seat near the window while Remus sits at the alley.  
  
No one else is in the car. Remus opens an abandoned copy of _The Post_ that he retrieved from an unoccupied seat. Sirius notices that he’s not really reading. Sirius lets his gaze fall to out the window. He is grateful when the train begins to move.  
  
They sit in silence. Remus is staring at the paper’s text but not taking in the words. Sirius watches the trees zip past them like a blur of green. He feels Remus’s hand on his knee and he reaches down to cover it with his own. As soon as he does so, Remus’s hand flips over, palm up, to clasp their hands together.  
  
For the first time since he was forced to abandon their home in Banbury, he relaxes. He lets his weight press his back into his chair. He sighs.  
  
An automated voice informs them that the train will be calling at Ashford, Hastings, Eastbourne, and Brighton. Sirius falls asleep before they reach the first station. Remus is squeezing his hand awake sooner than he’d like.  
  
Remus abandons the paper and leads him off the train, through the station, and out onto the street. In the distance, under a low-hanging gray fog, Sirius can see the sea.  
  
They walk in silence down a steep hill lined with squished, colored shops. There are a large number of Muggle arcades full of echoing zings! and pows! and sweets shops that sell mallows shaped like mouths and ice cream cones. They walk all the way to the end of that long, steep road and Sirius can smell the salt of the sea.  
  
Remus reaches out and pulls Sirius close to him, holding him close at the waist. Sirius begins to say something about “being in public” and “hate crimes,” but Remus seems to read his mind.  
  
“We’re in Brighton, Sirius,” he says with a smile.  
  
And thoughts of news articles about homosexual men found dead in gutters flee from his mind to be replaced with articles proclaiming Brighton, England as the gay capital of the United Kingdom. He intertwines his fingers with Remus’s hand at his waist.  
  
The combination of this loving, causal touch and the rail nap has left Sirius relaxed. But Remus cannot forget the war and continues to keep their steps quick and his eyes alert. Sirius wonders if he is feeling this detached because he has not worn the blood of his enemies in several weeks. They turn at Bedford Square, a quiet circle filled with stone buildings. It sits two blocks from the ocean and Sirius hopes he can go down and stand on the white pebbles and let the tide lap at his toes.  
  
Remus continues to guide him until they reach “the Miami Hotel.” It looks like any other British building, a stone exterior with a covered step and a black wrought iron gate. Remus fishes a key out of his trouser pocket and lets them into the building. He doesn’t pause to explain where they are, he just pulls Sirius up a flight of steps and then another one and then another one.  
  
They turn down a hallway, open a door, and then climb another set of steps.  
  
“Merlin, don’t they have a lift?” Sirius gasps.  
  
Remus shushes him with a glare.  
  
At the top of the steps they exit another door and walk down a cramped corridor, from there they turn into an even smaller corridor, and stand at a dead end. Sirius is about to ask Remus if he’s lost the way to where ever they are going when Remus sticks a piece of parchment into his hands.  
  
Sirius looks down and recognizes James’s handwriting.  
  
_Remus Lupin and Sirius Black live at 9e, The Miami Hotel, 22 Bedford Square, Brighton._  
  
He looks up to ask Remus what this means and is surprised to find a door marked “9e” directly in front of him. Remus unlocks the door, shoves Sirius through it, casts a suspicious look around the empty hallway, and then enters the room. After he has secured the lock, Remus begins warding the room.  
  
While Remus runs his wand up and down the door, Sirius takes a moment to look around the room. It is long and seems huge due to its lack of furnishings. A single bed is stuffed in the corner directly behind the door, allowing the person sleeping a few extra seconds to barricade themselves if someone were to burst into the room. A television is sits precariously on a cardboard chest of drawers. In the center of the room is a brown vinyl office chair. There is a stack of Campbell’s condensed chicken noodle soup and Heinz’s baked beans cans in the corner of the room and a pile of books on the wall next to, what Sirius assumes is, the balcony. There is a tiny closet without doors housing a Muggle gym bag and a few of Remus’s robes. On the same wall, a second doorway leads to a bathroom that looks big enough for one person to fill.  
  
Sirius turns to ask Remus how long he’s been here and why such a p _alace_ has James Potter as its secret keeper, when Remus grabs him by the back of the head and pulls him into a rough kiss. Remus is walking them backward while yanking at Sirius’s coat, undoing buttons with the same clumsy desperation that he is kissing with. As they fall onto the bed, Sirius is sure that he hears Remus’s head hit the wall, but neither of them stops their snogging. Clothing falls onto the floor, article after article.  
  
They wind around one another, thrusting their bodies against each other until they are one.  
  
They lay together and Sirius feels Remus relaxing into his side. Suddenly, he feels angry with Remus for letting him nap on the train when the moon is so close to full. Remus is the one who needs the rest, not him. He pulls his lover closer and rubs circles into the taunt shoulders.  
  
“I’ll keep watch, Moony.”  
  
Remus is asleep instantaneously.  
  
The hotel is busy, even in the dead of winter. The walls are paper-thin and Sirius can hear the neighbors screaming their arguments through the floor. The bed is rickety and far too small for two young men to curl up on. At the same time, it has been weeks since they were together. It seems fitting that even fate knows they need to be pressed together with only skin separating them.  
  
Sirius watches the way the light creeps its way through the cheap, gauzy curtains and onto Remus’s face. He wishes they were home. There Remus could stretch out on their big, squishy bed and rest knowing they were safe. There Moony could run wild with Padfoot and maybe Prongs, if he wasn’t be a responsible family man, and maybe Wormtail, if he weren’t being an overworked scoundrel. There Sirius could tend to Remus’ wounds and aches with the small arsenal of ointments, potions, and bandages he had amassed.  
  
Here, in this bare, indifferent room, both men feel the need to set the watch. Here there is no place for Moony to transform. Here Sirius will mend him as best he can with only his wand and soup.  
  
Sirius rubs his forehead with his palm. This is not good.  
  
A month ago, they were in the house in Banbury. They squabbled over which record to put on the victrola next. Remus had lay upside down in an armchair and had read _A Farewell to Arms_. Sirius had half-listened as his lover kept a running commentary on Hemmingway’s deadpan analysis of war. The late afternoon sun had warmed the room and Sirius had contemplated a nap. Then the wards sounded and there was a sharp knock at the door. Sirius had leapt to his feet and realized that he had unzipped his trousers at some point during his repose. He scrambled to redress and run for the door.  
  
“Whose there?” Sirius bellowed.  
  
From beyond the door a rich voice called back, “It is I, Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore! Headmaster of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry! Recipient of the Order of Merlin, first class for the Defeat of Gellert Grindelwald. You, Sirius Black, are my first student be placed in detention for transfiguring third year Slytherins into roofing shingles and tacking them up to ‘mend’ the roof after a storm.”  
  
Sirius visibly relaxed and began to open the door. Remus began to frantically flick his wand at the amassed mess of their home. He stuffed books under the couch and dirty socks into the coal bucket.  
  
“I am also in the company of one James Harold Potter, his wife Lily, and their son Harry.”  
  
Sirius throws open the door and hauls his friends inside. Once the door is closed, however, he leveled his wand at James.  
  
“Tell me something only you and I would know.”  
  
“In third year, I got hexed and my arsecheeks stuck together for a week. You had to unstuck me because I was too embarrassed to go to the nurse,” James replied evenly.  
  
Sirius smirked and lowered his wand.  
  
“Well, now we all know,” Lily said with a slight giggle.  
  
Sirius stepped into the entryway and hugged Lily tightly.  
  
“Hullo, Lily! How is my godson?” he asked plucking the squirming five month old from his pseudo-sister-in-law’s arms.  
  
Dumbledore didn’t let them linger with small talk. He herded them into the newly cleaned sitting area to discuss “an important matter.” Lily and James fidgeted in their seats, glanced at one another periodically, and then returned their attention to Sirius.  
  
Sirius had teased Remus about being a proper host as he floated the tea things into the room. Remus had raised an eyebrow, but allowed Sirius to avoid helping as he was entertaining his godson.  
  
As Remus had distributed teacups, Dumbledore had spoken.  
  
“When I was a lad, I was an immense fan of old American western novels. In these stories, there was a Muggle who stood for all the values of polite society; all that was ‘right,’ if you will. And to match this cowboy, there was a Muggle who defied these social traditions at every chance. The pair, however, were completely and evenly matched. No one could defeat them but the other.” He paused and sipped his tea. “I have heard a prophesy; one that pertains to the destruction of Voldemort.”  
  
Remus and Sirius had sat up and looked directly at the older wizard.  
  
“It appears that Voldemort must decide whom his arch-nemesis is. He is given the choice between two men, as far as I can determine.”  
  
He set his tea things down and folded his hands in his lap. After a beat he said, “I heard this prophesy last night.”  
  
“Professor,” Lily urged, “share it with them.”  
  
Dumbledore nodded and spoke.  
_  
“The one with the power to defeat the Dark Lord lives,  
Brother to those who have thrice defied him, born after the autumnal equinox in the year of the swine,  
And the Dark Lord will mark him as his rival, but he will have power over the dead, for which the Dark Lord cannot control,  
One must take the other’s life, for neither can exist whilst the other endures.”_  
  
James held his teacup, but it trembled in his saucer. It rattled louder when he spoke.  
  
“There are only two people it can be. Frank Longbottom’s brother, Danny—“  
  
“—but Danny is a squib!” Sirius interrupted him.  
  
Lily’s face was pale when she nodded. Sirius had stared at her and James uncomprehendingly. At that same second, Remus’s teacup had fallen from his hands. Sirius had moved, setting Harry in his father’s lap and tapped his wand on the tea stained carpet.  
  
“Moony?” he’d asked.  
  
Remus grabbed him by the arm.  
  
“We have to get you out of here. They know you live here… we have to get you safe.”  
  
Sirius had allowed Remus to pull him to his feet, but hadn’t let him tug him away from the sitting room.  
  
“Moony?” he asked again, digging in his heels in desperation for an explanation. The one that his mind is piecing together is simply too implausible.  
  
“Autumnal equinox is in September, Sirius. Brother of people who defied the Dark Lord three times--- that’s us; the Marauders. You’re James’s brother. You’re born in September.”  
  
“And according to the Chinese calendar, 1959 was the year of the pig,” Lily said sadly.  
  
Sirius shook his head again and again with his shoulders set in tense denial.  
  
“You’re wrong, it’s not me. James isn’t my brother by birth! Plus, you said something about power over the dead; I’m not raising corpses, Moony!” he’d claimed.  
  
James had abandoned his son and his teacup on the sofa. He’d grabbed Sirius by the shoulders.  
  
“Pads—Sirius!” James pleaded with a hint of desperation, “That rite after you came to live with me; we’re blood brothers. Biological relations or not, you know that rite counts as far as magic is concerned. We have to get you away from here. You’re it. You’re going to defeat Voldemort.”  
  
They’d admitted that they had no clue about his foretold abilities to raise the dead and he’d huffed that it only proved that they were wrong. In his gut, however, he knew that they were correct. He had begged Remus to come with him as Remus had stuffed wads of rolled socks into a Muggle rucksack.  
  
“I can’t,” Remus said sadly, “they’ll track two of us easier than one. Plus, the Order will need me.”  
  
They’d shuffled him off with a rucksack and specific instructions on how to live like a Muggle. He was only to use magic in emergency situations.  
  
Sirius had sulked and whined and told them he’d simply wait for Voldemort to find him from the comfort of his own home, thank you very much. But a terrifyingly livid Lily had taken him by the arm and, in the end, he’d gotten on the train as he was ordered. From his window, he watched his escort, a suddenly pale Lily Potter fidget and worry over him from her position on the platform. To anyone else, she’s simply been rubbing her lips with her fist. To a Marauder, she was blowing him a kiss.  
  
This was one of the many changes brought into their lives by Harry’s birth. About an hour after Harry was born, Peter, Remus, and Sirius had met the tiny infant. James had beamed, handing him a teeny, blue knit blanket. Sirius had felt bewildered, looking to James for guidance, in the same way he’d waited for the play in a Quidditch match.  
  
With a knowing reassurance, James had said, “Support his head, Pads.”  
  
Sirius had done just that. He’d stared in awe at the red thing in his arms. Then Remus had leaned in close, lifted one of Harry’s little fists and kissed it.  
  
“Hello, Harry Potter. I’m Remus Lupin; you may call me ‘Uncle Moony.’ Sirius and I have been waiting nine months to meet you. We’re your godfathers.”  
  
That had cemented it, as far as Sirius was concerned. Every time he said goodbye to Harry, he’d kissed that growing fist. Lily had teased the boys about becoming sentimental gits upon delivery of the sprog, but Peter had dismissed Lily as an alarmist. She’d laughed.  
  
That day, as he watched her pressing her own fist to her lips, he’d wanted to tease her about being tables being turned in the sentimental git category. He couldn’t, of course, because he was chosen by the Dark Lord to defeat or be defeated and he had to keep his distance from his friends or bury them in an early grave.  
  
That lonely train ride took him to him to Windermere and long, tedious walks around the lakes. He’d scared sheep and skipped stones. He’d watched the morning fog take a lazy march across the hillsides. He bought postcards and written them to his friends. He hadn’t sent them. That would be dangerous.  
  
He felt like he had to be prepared to flee at any time, so he had minimized his rucksack and carried it in his trouser pocket everywhere he went.  
  
Then on the fourth day in the Lake District, while he sat watching tourists pay for an overpriced boat ride across the lake, a discreet gray owl had dropped him a note.  
  
It was a roll of parchment, held shut with sealing wax. He’d lifted the roll and walked away to somewhere devoid of eyes. The wax was a face, which upon seeing him spoke.  
  
“Password?” drawled the bored wax face.  
  
“I don’t know…” Sirius replied, staring fixedly at the face’s abnormally long handlebar mustache. Sometimes his friends had the strangest sense of humor.  
  
“You must know the password to read the message,” the wax stated looking up at him in annoyance. The wax mildly resembled John Cleese; meaning that the note was from Wormtail and that he had been watching too much Monty Python’s _Flying Circus_ again.  
  
“I solemnly swear I am up to no good?” Sirius tried earnestly.  
  
“Incorrect,” the wax said with a twitch of his mustache.  
  
“Snape’s a greasy bastard?” Sirius queried with more than a hint of cheek.  
  
“Wrong,” the exasperated sealing wax intoned.  
  
“Can I have a hint?” Sirius asked desperately.  
  
“I suppose,” the wax huffed, rolling his eyes with a ridiculous amount of enthusiasm, “A Marauder’s best friend?”  
  
“A werewolf,” Sirius joked, knowing that if Remus heard that one he’d get punched in the gut.  
  
It was mildly surprising to find that the wax had looked relieved and had leapt free and the parchment unrolled. It had been blank on the inside. Sirius had looked all around him and then placed his wand to the center of the page.  
  
“Show me your secrets, friend.”  
  
The script had unfurled slowly, revealing Peter’s sloppy, permanently capital letters.  
  
**LEEDS.**  
  
Immediately, he had gone to Leeds and stayed in a dodgy hostel where they only offered Wheatabix for breakfast. Two days later, James had called to him from the two-way mirror he carried in his pocket.  
  
“Sirius! Go! Go now!”  
  
And without any questions, he’d apparated to the street in Bristol where his Uncle Alphard had lived. Since the house had long since sold, he had spent the night as Padfoot hidden under the front steps.  
  
Sometime after dawn, cold and weary, he’d apparated to Canterbury and found a room at a respectable youth hostel. He’d let a bottom bunk in a co-ed dormitory room. There he’d met some strange Muggles from an American university. They’d insisted that he join them on their adventures, but fear of their unseen wands had forced him to decline. On the third night of his stay, he’d become so lonely for Remus that he’d attempted to use the tell-a-phone and ring James and Lily’s home.  
  
The first attempt at procuring Muggle coins had been unsuccessful and so he’d spent most of the morning hunting in call boxes, gutters, and Laundromats for abandoned coins. Muggle Studies had taught him a thing or two about currency; he could identify the 2p from the 20p at least. Once he’d collected a small assortment of coins, he’d returned to the hostel and spread them out on his bed. He’d picked out the ones that looked to be the highest value and shuffled over to the tell-a-phone.  
  
He had managed to wedge three 50p coins into the slot before he gave up.  
  
That next day, he had felt more desperate than ever. He was away from his home. He felt unprotected, perhaps even friendless. He had wandered the city. He found strange sites that he wished Remus were with him to see. He walked through a covered market and a graveyard. He bought a post card and had written to his boyfriend about seeing a stalk of Brussels Sprouts for the first time and the headstones that were obviously wizarding but in a Muggle cemetery. He’d walked through a quiet park and seen the famous Dane John Mound.  
  
He’d stood and stared at this mound, then suddenly gotten a prickling sensation that he was not alone. He’d snapped around, clutching his wand, to come face to face with a misty silver wolf patronous. Moony had been sitting patiently watching him.  
  
The wolf seemed to smile.  
  
“1400. The cathedral.”  
  
“Aye, my love,” Sirius had nodded.  
  
The wolf had wagged his tail and run off.  
  
Sirius had gotten to the cathedral early, of course, and then Remus had been late. Lying in the tiny single bed now, Sirius wonders how long Remus has been “tailed” by Death Eaters. He runs his hand down Remus’s bicep, across his elbow, until his hand is clasped around Remus’s wrist. It terrifies him that the life he had envisioned for them has fallen apart so very completely.  
  
The morning finally breaks into the hotel room. Sirius stares up into the cracks and divots of the peeling ceiling. Remus wakes about an hour later and is in perpetual motion.  
  
Staying in this tiny room is clearly not an option. The moon is humming his veins and he wiggles and shivers while he paces the shabby dirt-brown carpet. Sirius watches Remus make turn after turn, marching between the nightstand and the far wall. He paused only to turn around and make the return trip. It is barely even a march, more like three solid, long strides. He looks like a caged lion, pacing against the bars that keep him from the world at large, from the hunt.  
  
Sirius can take it no more and helps Remus into the sleeves of his coat. They walk silently down out of the hotel and across the square. They cross the street without a pedestrian crossing and, finally, finally, Sirius is standing near the sea. There is no sand in Brighton, just little sun bleached rocks. They look more like pieces of sidewalk chalk that some forgetful child has left out in the rain. The rocks are white and full of holes where the sediment has fallen away and shown off where the air bubbles were once hidden. Sirius leans down and picks one up. It has little weight in his hand, but is perfectly smooth, and yet is somehow is still scraggly to the touch. It's egg shaped and slightly pink, now that he holds it close. He slides the small rock into his pocket and leans down to survey another.  
  
In time, seven or so rocks weigh down his left coat pocket. Every few steps, he leans down and captures another, stuffing it in his coat to carry home as a reminder of the day after Remus rescued him from his solitude.  
  
Remus continues to shift and rock on his feet, unsteady and unable to stand still even when not in forward motion. Much like these waves, he is not stationary; the moon controls them both, forcing them to submit to its will.  
  
Out on the water there are the remains of a burnt pier. Sirius wants to ask about it, but Remus is jittery and does not want to speak. Years together has taught Sirius much about Remus' moods. Silence is preferred in the hours before the moon. He will spend much of his night howling and his throat would not recover if he were to speak first.  
  
They walk for blocks and blocks, listening to the way the waves rush up toward them and then hiss back through the rocks as they roll back into the sea. It reminds Sirius of an instrument Professor Fraywell brought to Muggle Studies once. He called it a "rain stick," although Sirius thought it looked like an ant-chewed piece of wood. Fraywell had passed the strange instrument around their class, and when the stick was turned up on its end, rocks or beans or something small and numerous had fallen down the inside of the tube. Sirius didn't think the sound really resembled rain, but he did think that it was soothing.  
  
This incessant water through rocks, however, reminds Sirius of Remus's heartbeat. It is steady and beautiful; many would take it for small and insignificant, but Sirius knows that it is more powerful than too many give it credit for.  
  
Once, when he was six, his great aunt Chara took he and Regulus punting. The boat was strangely shaped, wide with one end flat like a platform. Regulus was much too small to work the miniature paddle, but he had cried and whined and Chara had relented. Regulus had leaned far out over the edge of the punt, only holding onto the very end of the paddle and tried to sweep the water toward him. He leaned too far, however, and fell head first into the Thames. Sirius had leapt up to save his brother, who was crying out and splashing about, but great aunt Chara had snatched him by the shoulder.  
  
He remembers her long, sharp fingernails digging into his shoulder and her voice, cracking and harsh from too many cigarettes, growling "let him try to swim, the stupid runt. It's the only way to teach him anything."  
  
He had fought her, finally biting her hand. He had grabbed Regulus by the hair and pulled him up over the side of the punt. He had been blue and still, not thrashing and fighting the water like when he had first fallen over the side. Chara had looked bored and pointed her ugly ebony wand at the four year old and restored his breath.  
  
Sirius had clutched his brother to him, trying to soothe Regulus who had sobbed himself into hiccups. When they had arrived home, Chara told Orion about the incident, insisting that Sirius was too interested in others to ever be a successful heir.  
  
Orion had called Sirius into his study and Sirius had tried to be penitent, but found himself defending his actions.  
  
"He nearly drowned, Father! He died!" he sobbed.  
  
Orion looked down at his son, his heir, and had been silent for a long time. Finally, he had said, "You preserved your bloodline, today, Sirius. You have done well."  
  
It was one of Sirius's only memories of his father praising him.  
  
Years later, that event would leave little wonder to Sirius that his family were, indeed, dark wizards and that water held a power he could never control.  
  
Remus steps closer to him and reaches his long fingered hand into Sirius’s coat pocket. Sirius feels the rocks rubbing against one another as Remus touches each one.  
  
  
They are silent until they come to Brighton Pier. Remus leads them up onto the street and onto the Pier. There are rows and rows of canvas deck chairs, abandoned for the season. Sirius pulls one out of the stacks and unfolds it. He eases into it, pretending for a moment that he is a Victorian gentleman here on holiday for his health and the society and not the man marked to defeat a great evil.  
  
Remus walks past him and leans against the white, ornate wrought iron handrail. He stands looking out over the turbulent gray ocean. The mighty sea wind ruffles Remus’s light brown hair, feathering it away from his forehead like a fancy tea hat. Sirius sits gazing at the man he loves, watching the way that Remus’s fingers try to still. He intertwines them, then unknits them, then tightens them around the railing.  
  
To the masses, the moon is a thing of romance and mystery. To Remus, the moon is a wicked tormentor, throwing every element of his naturally given gentle temperament into opposites. This transformation, the one that happens before the werewolf is attacked by unimaginable pain, is the worst for Sirius.  
  
He stands quickly from the folding chair and strides forward. He loops his arms around Remus’s waist and rests his hands flat on the railing.  
  
“Need a snack?” he asks into Remus’s hair as he kisses the back of the beloved brown head.  
  
Remus mumbles a reply, but it is lost to a gust of salty wind.  
  
The continue down the Pier far out over the ocean, passing empty carnival rides minded by irritable, cold men hidden deep in scarves and coats. The rides, immobile from the lack of riders and summer, blast too-loud music into the frozen wind. Sirius guides them toward a snack hut, hoping for something hot and sugary.  
  
His plans are foiled, however, when Remus’s hand clamps down on his elbow tightly.  
  
Sirius lets his eyes follow Remus’s. He is staring at a salt-licked piece of paper flapping noisily in the wind.  
  
They walk toward it and the magic in their blood changes the poster from an advert claiming “a ring to Slim-U-B will make you lose 15 stones in a week!” to a wanted poster.  
  
**UNDESIRIBLE NUMBER ONE: Sirius O. Black**  
  
The poster is complete with a nearly still photograph of his own face. Remus reaches up and rips down the parchment, stuffs it into his coat pocket, before dragging Sirius along, back toward land. Sirius attempts to make him stop twice, but Remus was did not relent until they come around a corner where they are safe from view of others.  
  
“Transform. Now.”  
  
There is no room for argument with that tone. Sirius certainly doesn’t want a row, but he doesn’t appreciate being commanded to do anything. Remus locks eyes with him, staring him down as the alpha of his pack.  
  
“Change, Sirius. Change now.”  
  
The part of his brain that contains Padfoot forces him to obey. He feels himself lifting his chin in submission before allowing his other shape to overtake his humanity. Remus turns around, double-checking for spies before lifting his wand toward an abandoned sand shovel and transfiguring it into a dog collar and lead. He leans down and clasps the collar around Padfoot’s neck. Taking the lead in his palm, Remus starts a steady, quick pace off the end of the Pier and back toward the Miami Hotel.  
  
They only pause at a kabob van, where Remus buys them a meal in two lidded Styrofoam boxes filled with something that smells delightful. Things like unseen danger are harder to be concerned about when he is Padfoot. The dog is content to know that his master has bought them dinner and will take care of him.  
  
They hurry up the last of the street and the many steps until they are safely warded back inside 9e. Sirius stretches his newly reformed arms above his head before diving for Remus’s coat pocket. He smoothes the parchment flat.  
  
“I’m worth 10,000 galleons, Remus. You could trade me in and get a better model,” he says with a smirk.  
  
Remus is stone-faced and silent.  
  
Sirius turns back to his lover and offers a consolatory smile.  
  
“Sorry.”  
  
Remus shakes his head before forcing one of the boxes into Sirius’s hands. Sirius opens his lid and smiles. Only Remus knows he wants his kabob without any veg but cucumbers. They eat in silence.  
  
It seems like Remus is trying to sit still long enough to actually eat his meal, but the moon continues to prod at him. Sirius turns his attention back to the parchment. He notices that in the text below his photograph there is the option to see the Ministry’s released list of “Persons of Interest.” He taps the section with his wand and issues a gasp when he sees the list.  
  
_1\. Sirius O. Black  
2\. Albus Dumbledore  
3\. Lily Evans Potter  
4\. Alastor Moody  
5\. James H. Potter  
6\. Remus J. Lupin (Dark Creature)  
7\. Fabian Prewett  
8\. Gideon Prewett_  
  
Remus is leaned over his shoulder reading.  
  
“What is the significance of our ordering, do you think?” he asks.  
  
“Lily’s an unregistered Muggleborn; that makes her a law breaking citizen. Mad-Eye is renowned for his work as a General under Dumbledore against Grindelwald. James’s political associations, perhaps?”  
  
“And whom he married.”  
  
“Another perk of being a bloodtraitor, I suppose.”  
  
“Sad, really, when being a Dark Creature only gets one listed as number six on the most wanted list,” Remus adds with a twisted smile.  
  
“Don’t use that term,” Sirius commands.  
  
Remus shrugs. Years of sneers and disgust have hardened Remus to the term, but Sirius hates it with a passion.  
  
“Peter’s not on the list,” Remus says suddenly.  
  
Sirius skims his eyes down past the Prewitt twins and in the top fifteen people, no Peter Pettigrew is found.  
  
“Maybe they don’t know his associations, yet,” Sirius says optimistically.  
  
“Or maybe he’s…”  
  
Whatever Remus is about to suggest is cut off by a female voice calling from Sirius’s trouser pocket. Sirius pulls a two-way mirror out and faces the woman calling him. Lily Potter peers back from the small looking glass.  
  
“Oh, thank God. Code only,” she cries, wiping viciously at her eyes.  
  
“’My lover is like,’” Lily pauses to gasp, “’a young stag.’ I am ‘like a lily among thorns.’”  
  
Remus shifts closer to Sirius, his anxiety matching Sirius’s own.  
  
“I am a warrior of Solomon. My beloved ‘is this that appears like the dawn, fair as the moon, bright as the sun, majestic as the stars in procession.’” Sirius can feel Remus’s eyes on him, as if in disbelief that such words are referring to him.  
  
“Are you safe, daughter of Zion?” Sirius asks, partially out of fear of the answer and part to keep Remus from calling him a lovesick idiot.  
  
Lily nods enthusiastically, wiping her eyes with her fingertips again and again.  
  
“’Warriors, the noblest of Israel,’” she makes a small weeping sound, clutching at her heart with her fist, “’wearing the sword, all experienced in battle, each with his sword at his side,’ be ‘prepared for the terrors of the night.’ War is upon us.”  
  
Sirius wants to reach through the glass and hug Lily to him. He wants to ask her if she is telling them that the Ministry has fallen into Voldemort’s control, but she’s speaking again before he can form the words.  
  
“’I will get up now and go about the city, through its streets and squares; I will search for the one my heart loves. So I looked for him but did not find him’,” Lily gasps, her eyes filled with tears anew.  
  
Sirius struggles with the code for a moment, Remus reaches and takes the mirror from him. He speaks directly to her with a calm voice.  
  
“’Where has your lover gone, most beautiful of women? Which way did your lover turn, that we may look for him with you?’” he asks her.  
  
Lily’s face is filled with fear and she bows her head.  
  
“I don’t know! I don’t know!”  
  
“Easy, Daughter of Jerusalem. We’ll come to you…” Remus says tenderly.  
  
“I will meet you in Solomon’s city’s walls. Safe travels, sons of Zion!”  
  
“Safe travels, daughter of Jerusalem.”  
  
The mirror goes dark. Remus is scrambling to his feet.  
  
“Lets get this place packed up, yes?” he says, while throwing items off the floor toward the gym bag in the closet.  
  
Sirius lifts his wand and begins to sweep everything off the bed, duvet, sheets, and pillows included into that same bag. There is no evidence that anyone has inhabited the room when they are finished.  
  
Remus reaches out and takes Sirius’s hand in his. Sirius glances down at their entwined hands.  
  
“Shall we go then?” he asks.  
  
Remus offers a nod before reaching into his pocket and retrieving what appears to be a harmonica.  
  
“Grab a hold, please,” Remus mutters and Sirius does so. Remus leans down toward the small instrument and whispers to it, “I am my beloved, and I am his.”  
  
Sirius wonders who the lovesick of them is now as his world spins around him. They land on mildly wobbly legs in Dumbledore’s office in Hogwarts. The wizard only pauses from his own packing to offer them a welcoming bow of the head.  
  
“Gentlemen, James Potter is currently procuring the Order a safe house. We will leave immediately.”  
  
Lily’s own port key drops her on unsteady legs. She is clutching her tiny child to her breast and a broken, red brolly with yellow poke-a-dots in her hand. Remus relieves her of the child while Sirius hugs her tightly.  
  
Dumbledore moves about the room with an agility that speaks of desperation.  
  
“Sirius,” he says, interrupting the reunion of friends, “take this please.”  
  
Sirius reaches out and takes a green velvet bag from the headmaster. Upon touching the fabric, it shimmers rivets of gold, as if this golden thread is woven into each strand, awakening upon human touch. Sirius moves to open the drawstring cord, but Dumbledore shakes his head.  
“I will explain later, there is not time.”  
  
The portraits on the walls are muttering to one another, Sirius is very aware that he is being watched carefully. He gives Remus’s hand a squeeze. Lily wipes her nose with the sleeve of her coat, whispering apologies and trying to blink away tears.  
  
“Where are we going, Professor?” Remus asks quietly.  
  
“A safe house,” Dumbledore says with an allusive smile.  
  
“They’ve known every move ahead of us,” Lily says unnecessarily.  
  
“Indeed,” Dumbledore pauses to consider which of the books on his shelf to pack, “hence why we much flee in secret. I fear that there are those whom we trust who have turned their allegiance to the Dark Lord’s.”  
  
“How strong is he?” Sirius asks, not wanting to hear any more of these traitors.  
  
Dumbledore turns and meets Sirius’s eyes.  
  
“I believe, Mr. Black, that he knows the oldest of magics; some of these are no longer in the written word.”  
  
Sirius nods slowly. He knows some of these ancient rites, mostly the darker elements of such, at least, small gifts given from a family whose amassed fortune came from their use of Dark Magic. He sighs; he swore to himself that he would never use such magic again. He knows no magic to match these old spells, especially these powerful Dark ones.  
  
“I will teach you what I can,” Dumbledore says softly, holding Sirius’s gaze.  
  
Sirius can only nod again.  
  
Dumbledore resumes placing items into a pitifully worn leather satchel. Remus rubs his thumb along the back of Sirius’s hand. Lily tightens her hold on Sirius’s arm.  
  
It frightens him that his friends are scared for him.  
  
There is the sound of stomping footfalls from behind them; they all turn toward the door.  
  
“Quickly, now, friends,” Dumbledore says quietly, “Grab on.”  
  
He points his wand at his satchel and it glows light blue. He turns to Fawkes perch and smiles. The bird glides lazily over and settles on Dumbledore’s shoulder. They all lean down and touch the bag.  
  
As the door is thrown open, they feel the pull of the port key.  
  
They are deposited in the attic of the Hog’s Head. They all shift and move against the far wall, trying to stay hidden and quiet, even in these hidden and private quarters. It is only now that Remus lets go of Sirius’s hand. Sirius flexes his fingers, suddenly missing his love’s touch.  
  
Harry wails in protest to his second trip via port key in a short period of time. Remus shuffles to child to his shoulder and coos reassuringly, hoping to still the child’s cries.  
  
The phoenix flutters over to Remus’s lanky frame. He settles on the same shoulder that Harry is snuggling into. Fawkes leans down and rubs his beak across the baby’s forehead. Harry stills quickly, his gaze locked on the magical bird’s bright plumage. Remus smiles for the first time that day, the moon temporarily forgotten.  
  
Sirius sighs and attempts to smile at Lily. She rests her cheek on his arm, watching Harry and Remus. There is a momentary calm. Then a ghostly stag glides into the room.  
  
James’s protronus speaks, “Warriors of Israel, the promise land awaits.”  
  
Dumbledore smiles at this, although his exhaustion is apparent in his face.  
  
“Shepard of Israel,” Prongs addresses Sirius, “lead your people to the place where a mallard will one day have one helluva hang over.”  
  
Sirius ponders this only for a moment before barking a laugh.  
  
“Will do,” he says with a chuckle. As the stag turns to run away, Sirius levels his wand at the same bag they traveled by from Hogwarts.  
  
It glows blue and he smiles comfortingly at his companions.  
  
“On to the safe house.”  
  
They all touch the satchel and spin into the dizzying transportation to a shadowy alleyway. Sirius leads the little band, pausing at the opening to the alley and glancing out into the open street. Once he is assured that it is empty, he walks onto the boulevard until he stands before an abandoned pub, the Drunken Duck. 


	2. Chapter Two

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Copies from LJ.

Sometime before sixth year, he and James found this pub while exploring the edge of the Muggle repulsion charms in Godric’s Hallow. Eleanor Potter claimed that she needed the boys out of her sight immediately. They’d wandered around the known wizarding shops and, finally, flirted the line where the wizard’s world met the Muggle. Apparently the area where the Muggle repulsion charm was cast happened to be prime real estate. The Drunken Duck had set up business in a spot that should have guaranteed a flourish in sales. But the charm gave Muggles headaches. Needless to say, the pub didn’t do well and was bankrupt and abandoned within a year of opening.   
  
On this youthful outing, James had broken into the back door into the kitchen and the two had wandered around the three levels, noting the bedrooms and storage areas, before breaking into the alcohol store that the proprietor had left behind. For years they had joked that it was their “secret clubhouse,” a name which earned them curious looks from Remus and Peter.  
  
At the front door, Sirius rests his wand into the center of the entryway and closes his eyes, feeling the magic. He recognizes the weave of the wards as James’s style, intertwined into a hypnotic knot. He finds the very center of it by its intensity and pokes that place on the door with his wand. The wards release their hold on the door and Sirius turns the knob. He hears the rush of feet behind him as the other four scramble into the pub.  
  
They are safely inside with the door closed again when they take in the other occupants of the room. James Potter is standing about two meters away with his wand leveled at them. Behind him stand about six other witches and wizards, all in the same position.  
  
“Lily Potter,” James calls, “why did you tell me you agreed to our first date?”  
  
“I said I wanted to get closer to Sirius—that I fancied him.”   
  
Remus quarks an eyebrow at the redhead, “Foolish woman.”  
  
She laughs, “I was teasing.”  
  
“Lily,” James continues cautiously, “who are these people?”  
  
She turns to Remus, “This is Lupin, holding your offspring. Your best friend is to my left and your former headmaster and current boss is behind me.”  
  
“You’re sure it’s them?”  
  
“Yes.”  
  
James lowers his wand and the others follow suit. Lily practically runs across the room to his arms. Peter steps out of the conglomerate of people and walks over to his friends.  
  
“Hullo, Moony,” he says, while extending his hand.   
  
Remus grasps his hand in a solid shake, while saying, “How are you, Peter?”  
  
“Still alive.”   
  
“Good to hear.”  
  
Peter is still holding Remus’s hand and smiling at him. Sirius moves over and grabs Peter around the shoulders.  
  
“Wotcher, old friend!” he says happily.  
  
Peter stiffens in his side-hug and offers a weak smile.  
  
“Sirius,” he says with a stiff nod.  
  
Sirius is about to ask Peter if he is alright but before he can phrase the question, James grabs him into a tight hug.  
  
“Been too long,” James says, affectionately.  
  
“Agreed. How are you, old man?” Sirius asks while returning the embrace.  
  
James only grins and releases him to grab Remus into a similar hug.   
  
“James,” Remus affirms while hugging his friend with one arm, “your son is drooling on my shoulder.”  
  
James grins and plucks the black haired baby from Remus’s safe hold. Once the child is in his arms his entire demeanor softens.  
  
“Hello, Harry,” James’s voice changes to a fatherly tenderness.  
  
Lily smiles at the sight of her boys all gathered together and then chuckles, “Nice place, James, it’s classy.”  
  
 _Her sarcasm is a little much,_ Sirius thinks looking around, _it’s not that bad._ Mostly it’s a large room, outfitted with dark wood paneling and low ceilings. There are two fireplaces at each end of the room and multiple cherry wood tables and chairs. Save for the layers of dust and cobwebs, the room feels cozy.   
  
Members of the Order are milling around, talking to one another. They approach Dumbledore. Sirius doesn’t fail to notice that many of them are staring at him and whispering to one another. Remus steps closer to him. Peter turns to Remus and grins.   
  
“I have a place safe for you tonight. It’s too tight for the other two, however. It’ll just be you and me.”  
  
Remus grimaces, “Actually, I’ve already decided where I’m heading.”  
  
Sirius reaches into one of the pockets and draws out his pocket watch. It ticks on, claiming that he “still has time” and so he smiles at Remus.  
  
“About two hours until we need to go,” he says.  
  
“I’m going alone, Padfoot,” Remus says sternly, already preparing for a row.  
  
“Right, and I’ll be here making paper crafts,” he says glaring at Remus.  
  
“It’s not safe for—“  
  
“—one of us to be alone. Just like we preach at every Order meeting,” Sirius finishes angrily.  
  
Remus is not fond of public arguments, so he grabs Sirius by the arm and pulls him across the room, behind the dusty bar, and into the abandoned kitchen, well away from the majority of the room’s occupants.   
  
“Look, the whole damn world is after you,” he growls when they are far enough away to access some sort of privacy.  
  
“You’re on their wanted list as well, old friend,” Sirius returns roughly.  
  
“I won’t endanger you, Sirius, I refuse to. It’s my job to protect you.”  
  
“No, it’s your job to love me, you daft old wolf,” Sirius says darkly, his mood flirting with pouting, “I’m in just as much danger here than I would be there. I want to be with you.”  
  
“Sirius,” Remus says with a sigh, “I do love you. And I will protect you, Merlin knows I would give my life to protect you. Because of that, I will not let you go with me.”  
  
“Damn it, Remus!” Sirius shouts, stomping closer to his lover, “How is it fair that you’re allowed to protect me by your rules but won’t let me return the favor?”  
  
Remus snatches a handful of Sirius’s robes at his shoulder and twists him, shoves him against the wall so that his face and chest are pressed into the spider-webbed surface. Sirius presses his palms flat on the wall like he is about to begin doing press ups. He tries to push back and free himself, but Remus’s fist at his shoulder holds him fast.   
  
“Fuck!” Sirius shouts, pushing against the wall again, “Let me go!”  
  
“Listen to me,” Remus growls low in Sirius’s ear, “you are staying here tonight.”  
  
“No.”  
  
“You’re a stubborn, spoilt arse when you don’t get your way, Black.”  
  
“That I am. Now let. Me. Go.”   
  
“No, not until you accept that you’re not coming with me.”  
  
“I am, damnit. You can give it up now. I’ll just come after you.”   
  
Remus shoves him, crushing his chest hard against the drywall.  
  
“Lover’s spat?” James asks from the doorway behind them.   
  
Peter is entering the kitchen behind him. Peter’s eyes set on Remus’s hold on Sirius and he smiles joyfully.  
  
“Not at all,” Sirius rumbles from his place against the wall, “Remus was just preparing to tell me where we will be spending the moon tonight.”  
  
“Ah, about that,” James says while stepping into the room, “I’m going to have to miss tonight, Moony. Is that going to be alright?”  
  
“Yes, Prongs, I’m going alone.”  
  
“Like hell you are,” Sirius grumbles.  
  
Remus grabs Sirius’s wrist and twists Sirius’s arm behind his back. Sirius grunts in response. James watches from near Remus’s shoulder. He seems almost bored with this scenario, having seen something similar repeated during their seven years at school.   
  
“Right, well, I’m going to see my wife while you two work this out,” James says. As he passes by Remus, he pats him on the shoulder, “Don’t break him, eh, mate? He’s got to defeat Voldie.”  
  
Peter moves to stand in the space that James has just occupied, his eyes locked on the awkward twist of Sirius’s arm and the angry red skin contorting under Remus’s tight hold.   
  
“The place I found,” Peter says with a squeak, “it’s an abandoned flat in Manchester. Owned by a Muggleborn who’s fled. It’s got carpet, heating, the whole bit. Should be nice. But, like I said, tiny; just big enough for the two of us.”  
  
“Your sentiment is thoughtful, Peter,” Remus says gently without turning to him.   
  
While Remus’s voice is kind, his eyes betray his anger. They bore into the side of Sirius’s head as if glaring at him will force him to accept Remus’s side. Sirius is shoved into the wall as if he is going to be folded into the building’s supports. He is breathing heavily but no longer fighting for his freedom. Remus tightens his grip on Sirius’s wrist and pulls Sirius’s arm harder so that the muscle is straining to bend behind his back. Sirius grimaces.  
  
Remus steps forward, shoving a foot between Sirius’s boots and forcing them apart. He presses his weight into Sirius’s back, pushing Sirius firmly against the resistant wall. He leans forward so that his mouth is brushing Sirius’s ear.  
  
“Surrender?”   
  
“If you’re alone you’ll tear yourself up,” Sirius replies defiantly.  
  
“You’re not coming,” Remus snarls, incensed.   
  
“Perhaps not by your leave, my love,” Sirius replies, mockingly.  
  
Remus reaches up with his second hand and seizes Sirius by the hip.   
  
“You are not coming.”  
  
“I am.”  
  
Remus snaps his head over to Peter and, with the authority of the alpha of their pack, demands, “Leave, Peter.”  
  
Peter’s face falls into a dark scowl, he glares at Sirius long and dangerously, before crashing out of the room. Once the door has fallen shut, Remus yanks Sirius free of the wall and shoves him across the room. Sirius stumbles and then attempts to catch his balance. Remus however, grabs him by the shoulders and pushes him until he is backed against one of the kitchen’s stainless steel counters. He shoves Sirius backward over it so that he is lying on his back. Remus forces himself on top Sirius, standing between his spread knees.  
  
“You will obey me,” Remus commands, leaning low over Sirius’s face.  
  
Sirius reaches up and grabs Remus by the back of the head and pulls him down into a rough kiss. Remus fights to stand up again, but finally, gives into the kiss. Sirius moves one of his legs up so that his bent knee is resting against Remus’s side, while the hand at the back of Remus’s head begins to knead into the tawny hair.   
  
Remus bites Sirius’s lower lip and ends the kiss breathlessly.  
  
“I will not endanger you,” he whispers against his lover’s mouth.  
  
“I know you won’t,” Sirius replies while he twines the hair at Remus’s neck in his fingers, “but I won’t endanger you, either. Leaving you alone… Moony, I can’t do that.”  
  
Remus drops his forehead against Sirius’s, his anger refreshed.   
  
“Damnit, Sirius,” he whispers crossly.   
  
Sirius’s arm, now sore and painful, wraps around Remus’s waist and pulls his weight closer. Remus’s lower extremities are pressing into the counter top painfully. He runs a flat palm down Sirius’s knee and up across his hip. Sirius folds his other leg up so that both knees are bent at Remus’s sides. Remus leans back from Sirius’s face and straightens up. Sirius lets his arms fall free of Remus’s body and he lies back across the counter, watching Remus.  
  
The flighty, twitchy man by the sea from this morning has been replaced by a more agitated, ferocious version of Remus. His eyes are wild with the fierce need to defend Sirius and, yet, there is the presence of something feral and lustful. Remus is staring down at Sirius sprawled across the counter, a hungry craving etched into his features. Sirius grins up at Remus and grabs him by the belt and tugs him down for another kiss.   
  
This time a needy tongue and an eager mouth meet Sirius’s demand. Remus’s kiss translates into some kind of desperation and Sirius can’t help but moan into his lover’s open mouth. Remus responds by grabbing a tight hold onto Sirius’s hips and sliding Sirius’s body down the counter closer to him. Sirius wraps his legs around Remus’s waist and sits up, allowing Remus to stand up straighter.   
  
The kiss multiplies into another and another, their anger converting into a different sort of passion. Sirius runs one hand into Remus’s hair, twisting the strands around his fingers and pulling lightly. Remus groans in response, pushing his pelvis closer to Sirius’s.   
  
Sirius breaks their kiss and begins to rub his nose across Remus’s chin and along his jaw line.   
  
“I love you, Moony, and I will take care of you tonight, whether you like it or not.”  
  
Remus growls, dark and soft, like he’s stalking prey. The sound sends a thrill through Sirius and he pulls his love closer.  
  
“Sirius, I don’t want—“  
  
“I know,” Sirius scrapes his lower teeth across Remus’s jaw, again, “but I’ll do it anyway.”  
  
Remus shivers and rubs his hands across Sirius’s back.  
  
“I love you, Sirius, even if—“  
  
Remus is apparently going to justify this but he is interrupted by Peter throwing open the door and storming into the kitchen. His eyes lock on the two men; his gaze is a blaze of fury and dejection.  
  
“Black, Dumbledore needs to see you,” Peter says in his usual squeak, but his eyes remain a swirl of grief and anger.   
  
Remus doesn’t release Sirius from his arms for a long moment. He simply turns back to face Sirius and rubs his palms against Sirius’s spine. He looks like he wants to say something, but instead takes a step back, forcing Sirius’s legs from his waist. Sirius pouts for a moment before sliding off the counter top and smiling at Remus.  
  
“When are we leaving then, mate?” he asks cheekily.   
  
“Dumbledore is waiting,” Peter repeats impatiently.   
  
“Right, right,” Sirius grumbles and strolls out of the kitchen.   
  
Once he is gone, Remus turns to Peter and locks eyes with him. It is a harsh and irritated glare.  
  
“What is going on, Peter?” Remus asks, tetchy.  
  
Peter twitches, shifting his weight from foot to foot, avoiding Remus’s gaze.  
  
“Nothing, nothing really. It’s just… I…” Peter stops speaking when Remus steps closer.   
  
“Peter, what _is_ it?”  
  
Peter squeezes his hands together, worrying his fingers between one another. His answer comes out in a voice higher and squeaker than usual, “Remus, my old friend, how do you know?”  
  
Remus lifts an eyebrow, “Know what, Wormtail?”  
  
“That—tha—Sirius. How do you know about Sirius?”  
  
At his lover’s name, Remus’s back straightens pulling him to his full height. He towers intimidating over top his friend.  
  
“What are you asking me, Peter?” he asks, his voice dropping in timber and volume.  
  
“You can’t love him. You can’t—“ Peter stutters, “He’s no good—no good for you. He’s angry and stupid and rash… and… and… no good for you.”  
  
Remus’s forehead wrinkles in confusion, his lips forming a taut line. Peter ploughs on.  
  
“Sirius and you—don’t work. He’s too loud when you’re not and he doesn’t think and he _betrayed you_ once. He’ll do it again. He will.”  
  
Remus has quit blinking. His attention is locked in on Peter’s face.   
  
“Remus,” Peter is suddenly pleading, “Remus, what about me?”  
  
Peter rubs his hands together faster, clinching and unclenching his fingers in quick succession.  
  
“I’d be good to you Remus. I’d be good to you…” Peter’s pleas suddenly lose steam and fall silently into the kitchen.  
  
Remus’s face is blank and his eyes are guarded. Peter watches him only for a moment before reaching out a trembling hand toward Remus’s shoulder. Remus takes a steady step backward and Peter’s hand freezes in midair.  
  
“Sirius is good to me,” Remus says, his voice barely a whisper, but hardened like stone.  
  
Peter chokes audibly.   
  
“Why would you think anything different, Peter?” Remus continues.  
  
Peter’s mouth unhinges and trembles, but no words issue forth.  
  
“No, no, Remus,” he stutters, “it’s Sirius. He… he will hurt you. Not me, I’d never hurt you, not me.”  
  
“How will he hurt me, Peter?” Remus asks, his face still emotionless.  
  
“He’ll… he’ll betray you. He will.”  
  
“How?”  
  
Behind Peter, the door from the pub into the kitchen is opening slowly. Remus does not let his eyes leave Peter’s face, but he can see James in the doorway.  
  
“He doesn’t love you, Remus. He only goes after what he wants… I’d… I’d be good to you, Remus. I found you a safe place to transform. I filled it with things you like… I’d be good to you,” Peter’s explanation has returned to begging.  
  
“How will he hurt me?” Remus repeats.   
  
Lily is standing at James’s shoulder, looking around his body into the kitchen. Sirius is behind her with Harry in his arms. Remus can only see their outlines in his peripheral vision, but he can tell that Lily is holding Sirius back.   
  
“He… he will get famous once people know what he’s to do.” Suddenly Peter’s tone has changed. The pleading is finished and replaced with a solid assurance, “He’ll have anyone he wants. He’ll betray you again, he’ll leave.”  
  
“And what is he to do?” Remus asks, himself sounding almost toneless.  
  
There is a glint in Peter’s eye now that terrifies Remus.  
  
“He either to defeat or be defeated by the Dark Lord.”  
  
“Which do you hope he’ll do, Peter?”  
  
There is a long silence as Peter pauses. Remus can see the answer shining in Peter’s eyes.   
  
“The Light, of course.”  
  
Remus’s stomach drops. He can smell the lie. He can see it reflected in Peter’s eyes, but he plays along.  
  
“And after Sirius defeats Voldemort?”  
  
Peter flinches at the use of the name but continues on, “He’ll leave you; he doesn’t really love you. He thinks that you’re a thing to use… an animal…”   
  
James and Lily are both struggling silently to hold Sirius back, although all three look enraged. James has his palm pressed back against Sirius’s mouth to keep him quiet while they hear Peter out.  
  
“You’re just something for him to use, Remus. You’re just another way for him to disgust his family; he doesn’t love you. He’ll leave you.”  
  
Remus says nothing. He simply stares into Peter’s face and finds the countenance disgusting. It looks like his friend, but this is not the innocent face of the boy from their years at Hogwarts. It has mutated into something capable of seeing through the atrocities of war and supporting their execution.   
  
Peter takes this silence as some sort of acceptance and lunges forward, stretching up to kiss Remus. James lets go of Sirius but snatches his son from his godfather. Harry yells in protest to the rough exchange of arms. Remus turns to see James shoving Harry into Lily’s arms as James chases after Sirius. Harry screams louder.   
  
Peter tries another step closer to meet Remus’s face, but Remus turns away at the exact moment that Sirius tackles Peter to the moldering tile. Peter yelps as his chin collides with the hard surface. James slides in behind Sirius, pulling him to his feet and shoving him at Remus. Remus grabs onto Sirius and meets his eyes. There is fury and hurt raging in gray irises.   
  
“All right, Wormtail,” James says, yanking Peter up and herding him toward the kitchen door before Sirius can launch another attack.  
  
“Lily,” Remus says unsteadily, his eyes never leaving Sirius’s face, “Sirius and I are leaving for moonrise now. We’re going to my parent’s house.”  
  
Lily is bouncing Harry in her arms while shushing him. James turns in the doorway, his hand still guiding Peter by the shoulder. Both men pause and look back into the kitchen.   
  
“I’ll get you some supplies,” James says, pushing Peter forward again.   
  
Sirius looks absolutely broken. His face is pale and his eyes look like shattered glass.   
  
“Remus,” he whispers, his voice almost lost to the volume of his Godson’s screams, “I would never… I would never do those things.”  
  
Lily is humming to Harry, but watching the two men. Remus realizes that his hands are locked around Sirius’s elbows, holding him fast. He releases the arms quickly. Sirius steps forward and then steps back again in lightening speed.  
  
“I won’t use you, Remus. I love you. I do love you,” Sirius’s voice cracks.  
  
Remus blinks rapidly and then steps forward, pulling Sirius into his arms.  
  
“I know, you sap, I know.” Remus feels Sirius exhale unsteadily.  
  
“Dumbledore… says there is a spy among us,” Sirius whispers, he is staring at the wall over Remus’s shoulder.  
  
Lily stops moving and Remus feels his blood freeze. Both of them stare at him. Sirius’s face is contorted into some sort of disbelief and terror.  
  
“He thinks,” Sirius licks his lips and then shakes his head, “he thinks its one of our own.”  
  
“What do you mean, our own?” Lily asks, stepping closer.   
  
Harry screams louder. Sirius turns from the wall and looks down at the red-faced baby.  
  
“He thinks it’s someone close to us; not just an Order member, but one of my friends.”  
  
Lily blanches further and Remus forces himself to breathe.   
  
“You mean… a Marauder?” Remus whispers.  
  
“It can’t be. It can’t be.” Sirius chants, a prayer of sorts.  
  
“Of course it’s not one of us,” Lily whispers, but Remus is suddenly doubtful.   
  
He keeps his feelings to himself.  
  
Sirius doesn’t say anything and Lily nods, fear etched into her face, and hugs Harry closer. Harry balls his hands into tight baby fists and lets out another scream.  
  
Sirius turns to Remus and then drops to his knees in front of him. Remus makes to grab Sirius, thinking he is falling.  
  
“Remus,” Sirius whispers, his face contorted in pure agony, “I would never… never… do those things. Please believe me.”  
  
The moon and the screaming baby are nagging at Remus’s brain, but he grabs Sirius’s hands, wrapping his fingers around his lover’s hands.  
  
“Please believe me, Remus,” Sirius begs and then squeezes Remus’s hands, “If you’re the spy, Moony—“  
  
“I’m not,” Remus says deliberately, but Sirius continues on, unheeding the protest.  
  
“—then just do it now. Whatever it is. Please. I can’t… I can’t go through doubting you…”  
  
Remus holds Sirius’s hands tighter and then drops to his own knees in front of Sirius.   
  
“Do you love me, Sirius?”   
  
Sirius takes a deep breath and then nods vigorously.  
  
“Good.” Remus is vaguely aware that Lily has left when he notes that Harry’s wails have become distant.   
  
“I wouldn’t, Sirius, I couldn’t do that. I won’t.”   
  
Sirius nods, reassured, and drops one of Remus’s hands to run his palm across his face.   
  
“Off to the North?” James asks as he reenters the room, a blanket and lantern in his hands.   
  
“Aye,” Remus replies, standing on stiff legs. He pulls Sirius to his feet.  
  
“Padfoot,” James addresses his pseudo-brother, “when you get back, I’ll hold and you can punch.”  
  
Sirius nods, his eyes looking haunted. James looks surprised and grabs Sirius into a hug. Sirius relaxes into the embrace and then tenses up again.  
  
“What is it?” James asks, noting the reaction.  
  
Remus steps forward and touches James on the bicep.  
  
“We’ll be back soon,” he says softly.  
  
James nods, confusion written on his brow.


	3. Chapter Three

_January 12, 1981_  
  
When the young man’s perception is replaced with the tawny wolf’s, he finds himself lying on a knit blanket next to a panting black dog in front of a blazing fire. Padfoot offers a soft lick to Moony’s muzzle. At first, Moony is confused. He recognizes this place as the den he lived in as a pup, but he has not been here in years. Moony has always hated the adjustment in dens; first, he left this place and took territory in the broken shack. That place was just as wretched as this one until he established his pack. Then, he and his mate had established their own den. He looks at the black dog by his side.  
  
He worries that his mate has not liked the den he has chosen for them. Moony huffs, irritated. It is a good den; it is warm and safe, there is clean water and there are rabbits to hunt. Padfoot didn’t seem to mind it the last few moons.   
  
Padfoot leans over and offers a gentle lick to Moony’s lip. Moony lifts his head as Padfoot rubs his muzzle on the bottom of Moony’s chin.  
  
No, Moony remembers suddenly, it is not that his mate dislikes their den, it is that their den is not safe any longer. Moony feels his hackles rise. Someone is hunting his mate. He must protect his mate. They’ve come here so that Padfoot will be safe. Moony offers a wet nose to Padfoot’s ear and climbs to his feet.  
  
His muscles are stiff, but he must get up. His mate is depending upon him. Padfoot leaps up, all wiggling puppy, bouncing around. He shifts to his back paws, dancing about on his hind legs, barking excitedly. Moony leans down on his front paws, offering a calmer version of the bark and chases Padfoot around the empty room.   
  
After a few turns in the fire lit room, Moony prances toward the door that leads into the yard. He will hunt for he and his mate; Padfoot is depending upon him. Padfoot seems wary about leaving the house as Moony flips the door handle down with his front paws and prods the door open with his snout. Padfoot continues his whining, however his mate’s empty stomach keep his protests futile. Moony offers a tail wag and a smile. There is no one here, he thinks, they are far from a village and there is space to run. Padfoot seems to accept this as enough reassurance and follows the wolf out into the night.  
  
Five rabbits and a good drink from a stream later and they return to the quiet room. Padfoot flicks the door shut with his paw as Moony paws at the blanket down in front of the hearth. He shoves it with his nose, inching it this way and that until he has made an acceptable nest. He turns around and around and around, and then collapses with a huff. Padfoot trots over and throws himself down next to Moony with a thump and a groan.   
  
Moony sniffs into Padfoot’s ear and then begins to draw his tongue up in languid strokes across the fur lining. Padfoot snuggles closer and Moony begins to snuffle his nose down the black dog’s spine, searching out his mate’s most intimate scent.  
  
His desires, however, are interrupted by a threatening crack! Crack! and both the wolf and the dog are at their feet.  
  
Padfoot is growling low in his throat, turning and attempting to herd Moony away from the light and the door where the sound came from. He is not quick enough. There is a shout, and when the door flies free of the hinges, two masked figures charge into the den.  
  
There is a devilishly good scent. There is **_man-blood_** in these figures and Moony feels an age-old hunger ripping at him. He leaps forward preparing to spill and lap up the hot, tantalizing blood of these humans.  
  
One of the figures raises a stick at him and yells words. A flash of green launches forth. Padfoot, however, is leaping forward and knocks into the second figure. His weight topples the man directly into the light’s path. The figure that Padfoot has attacked lies dead beneath his paws.   
  
Moony leaps forward, charging at the second man. His jaws lock with the man’s waist and there, ah, _there_ is the coppery delight that he has long desired. No rabbit has ever been this delectable. His prey is screaming in agony and lifting the stick again. He shouts something through sobs as Moony clenches his jaws down again, savoring the crack of bones and the sweetness of blood.   
  
Then Padfoot is running again, his jaws clamping down on the arm with the stick. Moony snarls and lashes out at his mate. He must know his place. Moony will hunt for both of them, he will provide for both of them. This has always been his promise. But he is the alpha; he eats first. But then the prey’s arm cracks under Padfoot’s jaws and the stick falls away.   
  
Then Padfoot stumbles backward and sits down hastily. Moony snarls again, but halts in mid-snap. Padfoot is bleeding.   
  
At first, Moony thinks that it is prey blood that is glimmering on the black fur. Then he steps closer, knowing that his nose does not lie. It does not smell like prey blood. It smells like his mate.   
  
Moony leans in, brushing his tongue across the large gash that crosses Padfoot’s chest. It runs across a forepaw and up under his chin. Padfoot whimpers as Moony’s tongue cleans the gaping cut.  
  
Moony issues a low, feral growl. This writhing thing in the silver mask is no longer prey; it is now the enemy. It has not only threatened his den, it has hurt his mate.   
  
As Moony bears down on the prey, it screams in horror, pulling itself toward the open door by its bare forepaws. Moony latches his jaws down on the prey’s throat, ripping and tearing until it is dead.   
  
If this were a hunt, Moony would lick the throat again and again, savoring the bitter tang oozing forth from the wound. But the hunt is done, the threat is destroyed. He turns his attention to the black dog, panting torturedly on the floor behind him. Padfoot whines and Moony offers a soft, comforting lick to his muzzle.   
  
Moony leads Padfoot back to the nest before the fire. Padfoot stands on shaky legs, attempting a sad wag and limping toward the blanket. He collapses there, whining pitifully. Moony stands over him, glaring predatorily at the two black robed figures lying so close to their nest. He assures himself that they are, in fact, dead, before he curls around his mate.   
  
Padfoot cries when Moony licks at the wound but allows the cleaning to happen. Moony watches a glaze claim Padfoot’s gray eyes and it concerns him but he isn’t sure why. He would consult the human who often lives in his body, but he doesn’t understand man words well. He watches Padfoot fall into a deep slumber and then he settles in for a long night’s vigil. He lays his head on top of the black dog’s sleeping form and waits for the dawn.  
  
The transformation is painful and Moony howls against it. Usually, Padfoot would lick and soothe him, but Padfoot has lain still, sleeping heavily since the depths of the night.   
  
When Remus lies next to the black dog, he knits his fingers into the thick fur of Padfoot’s ruff. Sometimes, Sirius stays as Padfoot to comfort Remus’s transformation back. Today, however, Sirius doesn’t appear to even be awake. Remus’s fingers catch on some matted fur and he brushes the spot again.   
  
Blood.   
  
A panic wells in his throat. Desperation forces Remus’s magic out of his body and without consciously willing it to happen, he has cast the spell that replaces Padfoot with Sirius’s human form. Sirius lies staring sightlessly at Remus’s face. The panic spreads in force; Remus is nearly frantic with the need to do something.  
  
Remus’s hands grasp in a maddened attempt to reissue his lover’s life. He is pressing the gaping wound on Sirius’s chest, trying to will the blood back into its home with his palms. Remus gasps and clutches, finding that his hands and arms are now crusted in dried blood. He calls out to the heavens and the deities unknown, praying for their intervention.  
  
What he receives instead are strong arms tightening around him and pulling him back into wakefulness.   
  
“Remus. Remus. Remus,” Sirius is chanting into his hair.  
  
Remus offers a few sobbing gasps while grabbing handholds on Sirius’s body. _It was a dream. Just a dream_ , he reassures himself. Sirius holds still and is soothing Remus with gentle words and tender touches.   
  
The dream replays itself over and over until Remus is fully aware that the Wolf has been the one to control his dream and has shown him the events of the night before.   
  
“Easy, Moony, it’s alright.”  
  
Remus’s eyes struggle to focus. Sirius is leaning over him, a tender smile on his face.  
  
Remus does not fail to realize that they are home in their cottage in Banbury. He is in their bed, wrapped in clean bandages and pajamas. Sirius is sitting on the edge of the bed in trousers. A large bandage wraps around his torso.  
  
“Death Eaters,” Remus rasps.  
  
“Not here,” Sirius reassures him as he lifts a glass of water from the nightstand at Remus’s left and brings it to his lover’s lips.  
  
Remus coughs out his words as he begrudgingly drinks.  
  
“Last night.”  
  
“Yes,” Sirius says, licking his lips.  
  
“I killed them,” Remus laments between his coughs.  
  
“No. You killed one of them, I killed the other,” Sirius reassures.  
  
Remus feels his throat closing as these words are spoken, but Sirius is touching his cheek. The waves of worry begin to roll over Remus again and again.  
  
"Who was it? Who did I—"  
  
"A Death Eater." Sirius’s voice is calm and hard; he states these three words like they are a fact that may not be challenged.  
  
"No, Sirius, who?" Remus’s desperate desire for knowledge leaves his tone angry and hoarse.  
  
"Why does it matter, Remus?" Sirius asks shortly.  
  
"Because I killed him! I need to know who he was!"   
  
Remus refuses to acknowledge that part of this desperation for the person’s identity is interlaced with a terror of repercussions and not solely for his moral and ethical well-being.   
  
"He attacked you; you defended yourself. If you were in 'man-form' and he had attacked you with the same curse, you'd have defended yourself as well."  
  
"No," Remus says quietly, "it's not the same."  
  
"Why not?"  
  
"Because… I swore that I would never attack someone. I swore I would never give someone this curse…"  
  
"And you didn't."  
  
"I would have, Sirius!"  
  
"No, Remus," Sirius looks away from him then, fingers resting on the bandages at his chest, "You swore that you would never give anyone this disease and you swore," Sirius turns to face him again, "that if you had to you… you would protect me, no matter the cost. You killed that man to ensure he wouldn't live with lycanthropy. Last night you upheld both those promises."  
  
Sirius rises off the bed now and walks out of the room, anger apparent in his stride. Remus reclines there, in their bed, wishing he could rest. It’s the first time he's been here in nearly three weeks, he should be at ease. He wiggles down under the thick duvet and rolls on a hip into the very center of the bed. Usually, when he is here, he can reach out those last few inches and touch Sirius. Maybe that’s why the room feels off kilter.   
  
Remus lays still, thinking and worrying until Sirius returns.  
  
Judging by the way he’s slamming down the teapot and cups he’s brought with him, he’s still angry. Suddenly, the screaming agony of the Death Eater sound familiar in Remus’s mind’s ear.  
  
“I killed… Snape…” Remus manages in a sob.   
  
Sirius’s body tenses but he replies steadily, “Yes.”  
  
“They found us… how did they find us?” he gasps, locking his aching muscles tighter. Sirius abandons the tea and sinks onto the mattress. He pulls Remus into his arms.  
  
“Someone told them where we were, Moony,” Sirius says into Remus’s temple, and then repeats Dumbledore’s words, “there’s a spy.”  
  
Remus shivers feverishly in Sirius’s arms. He squeezes his eyes shut against this news.   
  
“No one knows we’re here, Remus. You’re safe. Just rest. When you’re stronger, I need your help with the wards,” Sirius’s voice is quiet.  
  
Remus simply nods and sinks into the safety of Sirius’s arms.  
  
Remus sleeps the day away and in the haze of the late evening, Sirius helps him limp downstairs. Remus can easily see that Sirius has spent his day cleaning the empty house. There is a blazing fire in the hearth and soup boiling on the stove. Remus wonders if any of the groceries in the pantry were still edible.  
  
Sirius eases Remus into his favorite armchair by the fire. Remus sighs as his head rests against the back. Sirius places a tender kiss on his temple and wraps a knit blanket around him.  
  
“Remus, listen to me,” Sirius rests both his palms on the sides of Remus’s armchair, “I killed the other one. Hell, you can legitimately say I killed both of them. If I hadn’t been there, you wouldn’t have attacked.”  
  
“Yes, Sirius, I would have. I was hunting.”  
  
“It doesn’t really matter, does it?” Sirius says heavily.  
  
“They’re both dead.”  
  
“They’re not the first we’ve killed.”  
  
Remus offers a slow nod; the thought it more than mildly alarming. Sirius offers a tight smile. Then the dark haired man is off to the kitchen to season their dinner.   
  
The house smells right; it smells like them. Remus can feel the anxiety uncurling from his limbs. In the recesses of his mind, regardless what Sirius says, he is still thinking of the two prone forms on the floor of his parents’ home. He is still thinking of himself as a murderer.  
  
In the kitchen, Sirius drops something onto the tile with a clang! and a “shit.” Remus smiles slightly. But his eyes linger on the painting hanging above the mantelpiece.   
  
No one could claim that Peter, Sirius, or he were artists. Their doodles along the sides of their History of Magic parchments looked like disfigured inchworms or mummies. James, however, had a knack for watercolors. None of them knew this, of course, until Sirius ran away from his noble heritage and sought sanctuary with the Potters. Once there, Sirius had declared James’s art as “ace” and insisted that he have a commissioned piece.  
  
Sirius had pestered and bothered and annoyed James until, finally, as a housewarming gift, James had painted Sirius something. It was easily Sirius’s favorite thing in their home.   
  
The painting was relatively simple. In the foreground stood a familiar beech tree, flanked by a shadowy distortion of Hogwarts. But the beauty was in the people around the tree. None of them had faces, and yet, it was clear to whom each figure represented.   
  
At the base of the tree, a messy haired boy leaned against the trunk. He held hands with a petite ginger, who, from time to time, brushed stray hairs behind her ear. They talked and leaned in, presumable for a kiss, and looked out of the frame into the living room. At the other side of the trunk, behind the boy, a second boy, this one plump and blond, sat on the ground. His face was turned upward, looking into the branches above him. He would wave or cover his face in laughter at that space. In those high branches sat two boys, a tall, raven-haired one and a lean, fair-haired one. Their ankles were hooked together and they often leaned in close to one another to whisper secrets.  
  
If they were fully-faced portraits, they would interact more or move about in their frames. But since they were only impressions of the people whom they represented, they were only magic-ed to have a few repeated actions. Regardless, it had been a surprise to artist and audience both when Lily’s figure slowly grew in pregnancy. Then, in nine months, a small bundle with black hair had joined the portrait. Currently, Harry’s impression was sitting at his father’s feet dragging fingers into unseen dirt.   
  
Remus pulls his eyes away from the picture as Sirius reenters the room, slopping soup over the brims of a pair of bowls. Remus reaches up and takes one of the dishes from his lover’s hands and gazes down into the cloudy liquid.  
  
“It’s chicken noodle,” Sirius reassures him, as he sits down on the floor at Remus’s feet, “But all the veg was rotten… so there isn’t much to it.”   
  
Remus smiles and lifts a spoonful of broth to his lips. They are quiet, listening to the crackle of the logs on the fire and the hum of the magic warding their home. Remus gazes back up to the watercolor above the mantel and sees the faceless Sirius scoot closer to his painted lover. At his feet, Sirius shifts on the floor and Remus prepares to speak.  
  
“It’s either James or Peter,” he says regretfully.  
  
Sirius’s knuckles whiten as he holds his bowl tighter.  
  
“It can’t be. It’s not a Marauder-- or Lily,” Sirius says with assurance.  
  
“Sirius, James and Peter are the only ones who knew where we were last night.”  
  
“They—they told someone who betrayed us. Or someone overheard. It’s not a Marauder; we’re brothers, Remus! They wouldn’t.”  
  
Sirius’s capacity for love and loyalty is flooring to Remus. It, however, often blinds Sirius’s perception. Those whom he loves are accepted and cherished to a degree that is nearly insanity. The option that those around him don’t love him with the same intensity has never occurred to him.  
  
“Sirius,” Remus says, wishing that his voice didn’t sound so gravelly, “I think… I think it’s Peter.”  
  
Sirius stares into the yellow haze of his dinner and after a long pause says, “I forgot to put noodles into the soup. I’m sorry, Remus.”  
  
Remus sighs and closes his eyes. The subject is, apparently, closed. Then Sirius clears his throat.  
  
“It can’t be Peter,” there is hurt anger in his tone, “Peter is _in love with you_. I highly doubt that he’d want the object of his affection A-Ked. I could see him wanting to off me… I know I’m pretty peeved with the idiot’s _affections_ myself.”  
  
Remus’s eyes fly open at the mention of the previous evening’s Death Eater encounter and a certain death curse.  
  
“Sirius,” he asks, suddenly desperately worried, “your chest. How is your chest?”  
  
Sirius absentmindedly rubs the bandages beneath his shirt, “Aches a little, but it’s alright.”  
  
“Padfoot,” there is terror in Remus’s voice this time, “you died. You died last night. He… there was—Sirius, he cast Avada Kedarva and… and it hit you.”  
  
Sirius sucks in a sharp breath and sits up straighter. He sets his bowl of half-eaten soup on the floor and turns to face Remus.  
  
Remus is nearly hysterical when he speaks next, “Sirius? What happened!? How—“   
  
“Remus, I have to show you something.”   
  
He can feel his heart hammering in his chest as Sirius reaches down and unties a green velvet bag from his belt. Remus recognizes the bag as the one Dumbledore gave his lover when they fled Hogwarts. As Sirius’s fingers touch the bag, it shimmers gold and slowly begins to glow. Sirius unties the drawstrings and dumps the contents into his open palm.  
  
Remus is mildly surprised at how anti-climatic the black stone ring seems as it sits innocently in Sirius’s hand. Sirius, however, is staring at the ring with a certain vexation.  
  
“Do you remember the children’s story about the Deathly Hallows, Moony?” Sirius asks softly.  
  
Remus’s brain is spinning. He stares down at the ring and, gradually, comprehension dawns.  
  
“If you put it on,” Remus begins slowly, “you can call out the dead.”  
  
“No. According to Dumbledore, if _you_ put it on, you could call out the dead.”   
  
Sirius rubs his thumb over the black stone reverently.  
  
“If I put it on, I am the Lord of the Dead.”


	4. Chapter Four

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have no idea why I needed to go for kidfic at this point... oh the joys of looking back on one's decisions.

_January 14, 1981_  
  
Remus sighs and squeezes his quill. There are books and scrolls open all around him and the parchment before him is marked with line after line of notes. The floorboards in the hallway squeak and Remus glances up to see Sirius is leaning in the doorway.  
  
“Hey there, sailor,” Sirius says huskily as he enters the room. He offers Remus a steaming mug and settles his weight onto the arm of Remus’s chair.  
  
“You’ve got one hell of a list here, Moony,” Sirius says, running his fingers lightly down the parchment that has kept Remus’s attention for so many hours.  
  
Remus takes a sip of the strange combination of honey and bitter green tea and says, “The Lord or God of the Dead is known in one way or another in every culture on this planet; it shouldn’t be too much of a surprise that it’s taken some time to collect all that information in one place.”  
  
“Of course not,” Sirius replies as his finger passes by Pluto, Yama, Morana, Anubis, Cwn Annwn, and Samhain, “And what do you hope to accomplish from this registry?”  
  
Remus smiles at Sirius’s inquisitive tone, “I’m not quite sure myself. Perhaps some potential personality change you may undergo in the next month or two?”  
  
“Am I going to inherit some super-human, non-magic ability? Be able to will Celestina Warbeck off the WWN permanently? Or at least, see through your robes?” Sirius asks with a suggestive eyebrow wiggle.  
  
“I’d rather you could fix a meal with the blink of an eye, but, as far as I can tell, myth only tells us that the Lord of the Dead, the Grim Reaper, or what not, simply pulls souls into the Underworld.”  
  
“That doesn’t sound pleasant,” Sirius replies, pulling his hand away from the parchment. Remus rests his arm across Sirius’s thigh.  
  
“What happened the last time you tried the stone?” Remus asks as he pulls at a loose string in Sirius’s robe.  
  
“I don’t know; I haven’t tried it yet,” Sirius replies, batting away Remus’s hand, “Stop. I don’t want a hole.”   
  
Sirius sounds stern and that makes Remus smile.  
  
“Then clip it off. Why haven’t you tried it?” Remus queries, with another sharp tug to the renegade string.  
  
“Tried what? Scissors? A snipping charm? Both seem too sharp and close to my bits—“  
  
“No, you prat. Too close to your bits _indeed_ ,” Remus huffs in exasperation before clarifying, “ _The ring_. Why haven’t you put it on and given it a go yet?” Remus releases the loose purple thread and turns his face upward to meet Sirius’s eyes.  
  
Sirius is aggressively looking away. His gaze lingers on the far wall, the items on Remus’s bookshelf, and then the list of death deities.  
  
“Padfoot?” Remus queries softly, placing his palm flat on Sirius’s leg in a soothing manner.  
  
“I don’t know what will happen,” Sirius replies quietly, “I mean, what if I am required to call someone into Death just because I thought I’d take the ring for a test run?”  
  
“From what I’ve read,” Remus says, using his hands to gesture at the room around him, “it has to be a soul’s ‘time’ to leave the land of the living.”  
  
“Yes,” Sirius replies evenly, “but who’s to say what qualifies as one’s time? What if it’s just that you were the unlucky bloke in the room with the chap with the ring at the wrong time?”  
  
Remus rubs Sirius’s thigh again in an attempt to soothe him, “I don’t know, Padfoot.”  
  
Sirius nods as if he understands that Remus can see his line of thinking as he covers Remus’s hand with his own. Remus registers a question when he catches sight of the familiar bag hanging at Sirius’s hip.  
  
“Sirius, were you wearing the ring at moonrise?”  
  
Sirius uses their conjoined hands to tap out a rhythm on his leg as he speaks. “On the full? No. Why?”  
  
“You admit that you died that evening,” Remus pauses as he leans forward and sets his mug on his desktop, “how did you survive if you weren’t wearing the ring on your hand?”  
  
Sirius meets Remus’s gaze. There is wonder in his eyes.  
  
“Maybe the spell deflected? Maybe I didn’t really—“  
  
“No, Padfoot, you weren’t breathing. You had no pulse,” Remus interrupts.  
  
“Well, according to the old definition of dead,” Sirius replies cheekily, “I was a textbook case.”  
  
“I realize, you innocuous fool, that the females of Hogwarts have corrupted you into believing that you are quite charming. However, dear sir, you are direly mistaken,” Remus says with a tight smile.  
  
“Oh?” Sirius arches an eyebrow at the accusation, but there is no heat in his question.  
  
“You were… I was…” Remus stumbles over his words. At last, he meets Sirius’s gaze and whispers inaudibly, “I’d lost you, Sirius. You were gone. There isn’t a damn thing droll or clever about that. You had…”  
  
Sirius leans down and cuts Remus’s words off with a simple kiss; neither man’s lips part and neither man’s eyes close. They continue to gaze at one another as the manifestation of their affection lingers. When Sirius speaks next, it is with the same unadorned tenderness.  
  
“Alright, Moony, I concede. I died. I’m sorry that I distressed you. I don’t know how I came back. But I do know when I woke up you were bleeding like a madman and I was holding the ring in my hand. I’m not sure how I managed that, as I was, deceased.”  
  
Remus squints and his brow furors, but his eyes remain locked on Sirius’s face. They sit in silence for several moments. Both men are concentrating on the quandary set before them.   
  
“Perhaps you hold such power over the ring that it must assist you,” Remus offers uncertainly.  
  
“So the ring is only a tool?” Sirius asks for clarification.  
  
“Perhaps. Much like a wizard needs his wand to focus the most powerful magic, you need the stone… It was given to mankind by one of the previous embodiment of Death to access the other world. Only, when those not given authority over Death use the stone, they may only call out those known to them in life. You, on the other hand, have the authority to render souls… dead.”   
  
As he speaks, Remus’s eyes are traveling across the piles of knowledge located on his desk as if one of them will declare his theory valid.  
  
When none of them do, he finishes lamely, “The premise makes sense. It is, after all, from the physical world of the Dead and we know it holds magic. ”  
  
Sirius nods at Remus’s words, drinking deeply of these thoughts. He offers nothing to build on, however, and Remus offers no proof. Both men know that the only verification of their theories will come in way of testing the ring. Remus can see Sirius is avoiding this confirmation or denial; he is not surprised when Sirius hastily changes the topic.  
  
“ _Prophet_ came while you were in here.”  
  
“And what’s happened now?” Remus asks, dark humor creeping into his voice.  
  
“In addition to the Muggleborn-Registry, the open season on Dark Creatures, and the fact that everyone we love are currently enemies of the state,” Sirius takes a deep breath, “the ‘Ministry’ has declared certain food stuffs, hygiene items, and transportation aids ‘rationed.’ Only a certain number of each per household, per month now.”  
  
“What kind of items?” Remus’s muscles are tense as he asks.  
  
“Ironically?” Sirius offers a mirthless chuckle and a sneer, “Your shaving lotion. James’s brand of toothpaste. The nappies Lily buys for Harry. My shampoo… Damnit, Moony! Someone told them what shaving lotion you use!”   
  
Sirius pauses to seethe for a moment before carrying on, “In addition, sugar, petrol, flour, most anything veg, rice, floo powder, chocolate, bandages, tea, imported potion supplies, coffee…” Sirius is ticking off items on his fingers, but Remus grabs his hand again and holds it tight.  
  
“We’ll make do.”  
  
“Remus,” Sirius’s voice is gentle and patronizing, like he’s speaking to his godson and not his lover, “we can’t even go out in public to buy these things if we want. They’re planning on starving us out. They figure we’ll make do with Polyjuice Potion or something for a while, but when we run out of those supplies—“  
  
“We’ll figure something out,” Remus says ardently, tightening his grip on Sirius’s hand, “We’ll get a house elf or something.”  
  
“How?” Sirius asks, suddenly sounding desperate, “We can’t exactly go to the auction block and pick one out of stock.”  
  
“By owl, then. Or James’s cloak. We’ll make do, Pads. We’ll be alright.”   
  
In his life, Remus has been determined to will only a handful of things into fruition. This afternoon, he adds their survival to his list. As far as he is concerned, they’ll subsist on their love for one another. His determination seeps fiercely into his words and into his hold on Sirius’s hand.   
  
Sirius nods slowly and then says quietly, “Remember ‘Dung, the kid who was always selling illegal stuff at Hogwarts?”  
  
“The one who always had the top quality Gillyweed?” Remus retorts with a chuckle, “Yes, you could say I remember him well.”  
  
Sirius grins for a moment then continues, “He’s running a black market on some things. I’m trying to get him to agree to procure some items for the Order. I think he’ll go along as long as the price is right.”  
  
“Or until things get too dangerous.”  
  
“Well, it _is_ Dung. Not too much could have changed about the bastard since we graduated.”  
  
Remus smiles and hooks his fingers between Sirius’s.   
  
“How do you think he’ll take to a personal order for the Black-Lupin household of personal lubricant?” Remus asks innocently.  
  
Sirius throws his head back and laughs in earnest. Remus grins. The happy sound is cut short, however, by the appearance of wispy phoenixes flowing from their wand tips. The Order summons.   
  
The call is no surprise. There is the need to plan surveillance over the Muggleborn’s homes and to organize the new base. Remus’s muscles are still tender from the Moon and the hours spend bent over books. He is leaning on Sirius when they apparate to the Drunken Duck. They slip through the newly placed wall-turned-entrance with the password and are greeted with the warm smell of roast and mulled cider. They walk deeper into the building, passing a pair of witches folding linens. They offer a curt nod and move further down the hallway.   
  
Once they are in the main room, they can see various members congregating around maps and scrolls in a corner. Someone is in the kitchen screeching for three of the eldest Weasley boys to quit trying to put toads into the Order’s dinner. The door to the kitchen swings open and three ginger boys tear out, being chased by their perpetually pregnant mother Molly. As Marauders, Remus and Sirius are completely content with the miscellaneous chaos surrounding them; neither of them bats an eye as one of the boys—Charlie perhaps? —nearly runs into their legs. Sirius finds a chair at the main table and ushers Remus into it.   
  
Lily hurries to them, wrapping her arms around Remus’s shoulders and kissing his forehead.  
  
“You have a fever,” she whispers with concern.  
  
“You have cold lips,” Remus quips.  
  
Sirius is shuffling on uneasy legs. Remus looks up at him and notes Sirius avoiding the curious glances of another room full of whispering wizards. Not that Remus really blames them; Sirius is far easier to look at than any Rune-covered parchment. Lily follows Sirius’s gaze and pats Remus’s arm.  
  
“Excuse me, Remus,” she says warmly and then grabs Sirius by the arm.  
  
“I have someone I want you to meet,” she says, as she hauls the dark haired man away.  
  
Remus watches the two retreat to one of the upstairs rooms. He is aware of Peter entering the room from the front door. The hair on the back of his neck prickles. Peter sees him alone and advances on him.   
  
Peter drops into the chair next to Remus.   
  
“Are you alright!?” he says in low, worried tones.  
  
“It wasn’t a horrible moon, thank you, Peter.”  
  
Peter doesn’t seem to acknowledge the nearly emotionless quality of Remus’s voice. He charges ahead with his own characteristically breathy reply.   
  
“No,” Peter says while shaking his head, “ _the attack_. Are you alright?”  
  
Remus is about to ask how he knows about that when he hears Sirius’s voice echoing back down the stairwell. Peter jumps out of the chair and hurries around the table. Remus turns to see Sirius come into the room wearing a glowing, proud smile.  
  
In Sirius’s left arm, Harry is snuggled into the crook of his elbow. In his right arm, however, a round faced, blond headed child is nestled. As Sirius comes closer, Remus leans over and examines the second child closely.  
  
“It’s Neville Longbottom, Moony,” Sirius breathes, enraptured with the child.  
  
“Harry’s gotten so big,” Remus muses and looks Neville over.  
  
The comparison of the two boys is startling. It should not be so apparent that the babe on the right has been without a stable family. Neville is small and pale. He looks completely uncomfortable being held, even though Remus knows that Alice and Frank both coddled the child.   
  
“Remus,” Sirius says with a hint of persuasion to his tone, “he has no one. You said so yourself.”  
  
Remus looks up into Sirius’s face, trying to decipher what Sirius is asking. He notes that Lily and James have appeared at some point and are listening in on the conversation.  
  
“Harry would have a cousin…” Sirius begins.  
  
“Padfoot,” Remus interrupts with a smile, “are you suggesting that we take Neville home on a permanent basis?”  
  
“Basically.”  
  
“I think it’s a brilliant idea,” says a Scottish accent from Remus’s side.   
  
He turns to see Minerva McGonagall gazing at the sleeping boys in Sirius’s arms. She turns and smiles warmly at Remus.  
  
“You _would_ make an excellent father, Mr. Lupin,” she confides, with a wink to Sirius.  
  
Remus looks around the table and catches Peter watching the scene unfold with hurt written across his face.   
  
Remus feels like he’s being set up. Sirius is staring at him with pleading eyes.   
  
“This is a _baby_ , Sirius,” Remus clarifies, “it’s not like we’d be taking a goldfish home.”  
  
Sirius smiles secretly at Neville and then slides the blanket bundled boy into Remus’s arms. The baby yawns widely and snuggles into Remus’s chest. Remus feels his heart constrict.   
  
Looking down at the child, his brain whirls with unexpected thoughts. He and Sirius would have a son. They would have a child. There is something beautiful in this option. Simultaneously, he’s terrified at the prospect of this.   
  
Remus continues to stare at Neville with adoring trepidation. He barely registers that the Order is seating themselves for the meeting to begin.   
  
He feels Sirius lean over and speak into his ear, his voice is dripping with the honeyed tones that the man saves for persuasion, “What do you think, Moony?”  
  
Remus looks up and meets Sirius’s hopeful face.  
  
“I think,” Remus pauses to look down at the nearly asleep child in his arms, “this is the most ludicrous thing you’ve ever suggested. Do you really expect us to be able to care for a child? There would be no giving him back when he starts screaming like a bloody banshee.”  
  
Sirius looks at Remus with impetuosity, but his tone is nothing short of faux seduction. “But I like hearing _you_ scream.”  
  
Remus can feel his face flush. He shakes his head at Sirius’s inappropriate timing. In the same second, however, he catches the sight of Neville dozing against his jumper again. He leans into Sirius’s hovering face.  
  
“Well Mr. Black, I suppose that we’ll have to buy a cradle.”  
  
He would give all the gold in the world to see the thrilled smile erupt across Sirius’s face more often.   
  
“I take it,” Dumbledore rumbles from behind Remus’s chair, “that young Longbottom has found a family to care for him?”  
  
The people around the table have stilled, all staring at Remus. Some look pleased at the newly formed family, while some look disgusted at the option of two gay men raising a son.   
  
“I believe so,” Remus replies happily. He finds that with these words his heart is reeling as if he’s been spinning around in circles. He nearly giggles as his stomach does a flip-flop. Even though Harry is leaning against Sirius’s chest, Sirius reaches over and rests his hand on Remus’s elbow.  
  
Somewhere down the table someone says something about the situation being “an abomination.” Remus doesn’t turn to assign a face to statement and quickly the words are covered with Dumbledore’s commanding nature.  
  
“Wonderful,” Dumbledore seems pleased at the circumstances, “then, let us begin.”  
  
And after Dumbledore has seated himself, the Order meeting turns to dark and unpleasant things that Remus wants to shelter his newly acquired son from. Harry begins to fuss at the mention of an attack on a Muggle shopping centre and James takes him from Sirius.   
  
Sirius begins to fidget then. He taps his fingers on the tabletop. His knees bounce to an uneven rhythm. He fingers the bag tied at his belt. He keeps glancing up at Dumbledore and back at the tabletop; he appears to be waiting for something.   
  
Dumbledore takes a deliberate pause and looks at Sirius.  
  
“My friends,” he says darkly, “we have something to announce.”  
  
Sirius sits up straighter, suddenly still. He meets Dumbledore’s eyes and gives a grave nod.  
  
“Although I had hoped that by joining together in love and friendship we would not splinter into factions, it appears that there is a spy in our midst.” Albus pauses, allowing for the hum to die down.  
  
Alastor Moody stands up from his seat and points directly at Sirius, “Have we proven Black’s allegiance?”  
  
Sirius smiles condescendingly and offers a humorless murmur.   
  
“Mad-Eye,” Fabian Prewett says with annoyance, “he’s the bloody _Chosen One_. He had better be on our side.”  
  
The magic eye swirls toward the ginger haired man and its owner speaks, “That kind of assumption could get you killed! Extra precaution never hurt anyone!”  
  
“That makes it sound like you’re telling us to use a johnny. _Extra precaution!_ ” Gideon snickers from beside his brother.  
  
“He’s right, you need some sort of jingle phrase,” Fabian says, grinning at Gideon.  
  
“Beware! Beware!” Gideon calls, wiggling his fingers menacingly at Dorcas Meadows.  
  
“Nah, that’s too _Julius Caesar_ and the Ides of March,” Benjy Fenwick dismisses, waving his hand as if to clear the air.  
  
“Never quit looking behind you!” Elphias Doge wheezes from Lily’s right.   
  
The long-standing stress breaks with the laugher. Moody glares openly at the table and receives a hearty slap on the back from Rubeus Hagrid, which leaves Mad-Eye breathless for several moments. When the giggles subside, Dumbledore speaks softly, drawing the group’s attention once again.  
  
“It has been confirmed,” he says, his voice and eyes lacking any sort of twinkle, “that Sirius Black is indeed the one that Voldemort has marked.”  
  
The table’s occupants turn to Sirius, watching him to see what he will say. They all know him; the reckless disowned heir who has led them into battle with a mighty yell and careless grace. Yet somehow, this confirmation has left them all waiting for him to change in personality.   
  
Sirius sits poised, looking to all outsiders that he is comfortable. Remus isn’t fooled. Sirius loves attention as long as it is on his terms; this is something he is unable to deal with. Minerva McGonagall reaches across the table and lays her hand on Sirius’s arm. She is beaming with something akin to maternal pride.  
  
“I always told you’d become a mighty man, Sirius,” she says tenderly.   
  
“No, Minnie, you always told me that if I quit transfiguring Slytherins into cutlery that I’d become a mighty man,” Sirius supplies cheekily.  
  
McGonagall rolls her eyes and clicks her tongue. Remus doesn’t miss the fact that, although she’s exasperated, she squeezes Sirius’s arm before releasing it. He also doesn’t fail to overlook Sirius’s genuine gratitude to her.  
  
The people at the table are shifting and talking among themselves again. Dumbledore clears his throat, restoring order.  
  
“I am asking that we all look out for one another. Consider our family here when you begin hoarding rationed goods,” Dumbledore’s eyes twinkle only for a second. When he speaks again, his nature is more stoic.   
  
“However, please remember that it appears that one among us has strayed,” he says.  
  
The dark, melancholy mood has resettled on the members around the table. Sirius is drumming on the table again, his thumb flicking at the edge of a tattered map of Sussex.  
  
“I pray,” Dumbledore rumbles on, “that this stray lamb, whomever he or she may be, will know that we are friends here. We will welcome their restoration to us if they should choose to return.”  
  
“Hear, hear,” James says, his eyes never leaving Harry, who is squirming in his arms.  
  
“Also, I would ask that we all please look out for our marked friend,” Albus glances at the fidgeting Sirius, “as he will need all the allies he can muster.”  
  
Sirius stills once he realizes that the Order is looking at him again. Remus is amused to see Sirius’s good breeding kick in when he notices that he is being watched.   
  
“And, finally, Alastor would like to remind you to be on your guard at all times.”  
  
“—Beware!”  
  
“—Extra protection!”  
  
Moody speaks over the laughing Prewett twins, “I suggest that each of you cast the Fidelius Charm on your abodes. Consider your secret keeper carefully and remember… constant… defense!”  
  
“Hmm,” Fabian hums, “Better, Mad-Eye, but still not right.”  
  
“We’ll work on it and get back to you,” Gideon affirms.  
  
As the meeting breaks up, members disperse into the many rooms of the pub. Some pause to see Neville in the arms of his new guardian, others coo over Harry, and a few walk up to Sirius.  
  
James grips Remus by the bicep and speaks directly into his ear, “Lily and I want Sirius to be our Secret Keeper.”  
  
“You’ll be ours,” Remus replies without looking at James.  
  
“Of course.”  
  
“Tomorrow?” Remus asks, looking down at Neville who is smacking his lips as he wakes from his nap.  
  
“Sure. We’ll bring some baby stuff by,” James squeezes Remus’s arm, “Welcome to fatherhood, Moony. You’ll be great.”  
  
Remus turns to his friend and smiles, full and happy for the first time in days.   
  
“Thank you, Prongs.”  
  
“They’ll be great friends,” James says looking down at his son and then at Neville, “both will be strapping Gryffindors who’ll get care packages full of Dungbombs.”  
  
Remus can’t help but laugh, “We should break into Filtch’s office and get the Map back so they can have it when they get to school.”  
  
“When the war’s over, it’s a date,” James says with a grin.   
  
Lily herds Sirius’s admirers away, insisting that they go help set the table for supper. She puts her arm around the tall man and pulls him toward Remus and her husband.  
  
“You’re all familial now,” she says, smiling brightly.  
  
“Who’d have expected it,” James jokes, punching Sirius in the arm, “Sirius Black: the family man.”  
  
Sirius lowers his head to laugh, his dark fringe hanging in his eyes. As he tosses the loose strands from his face he catches Remus’s eye.  
  
“Godparents?” he asks his lover.  
  
Remus smiles and turns to Lily, “You trusted us enough to be your son’s godfathers. Would you return the favor?”  
  
Lily beams and then hugs Remus carefully.  
  
“It would be an honor, my friend.”  
  
James hands Harry to Sirius and takes Neville from Remus.   
  
“Hello, little man. I want you to know that your dads are pretty decent blokes, but if you ever need help with _girls_ , you’d better come see me.” Sirius gives a hearty laugh and whispers something into Harry’s ear.  
  
The green-eyed baby flashes a wicked smile and then bursts into giggles. Lily shakes her head and then looks at James.  
  
“Should we tell them?” she asks.  
  
James’s face takes on a paler expression. “If you think—“  
  
“Where’s Peter?” she asks, looking around at the clusters of witches and wizards preparing for dinner, “I want to tell you all at once.”  
  
Sirius makes a face at the mention of their friend, but lets the expression soften after a moment.   
  
“Maybe he went to the loo, Lil. Just tell them. We’ll catch him later,” James assures.  
  
Lily’s smile is unrestrained again.  
  
“What would you boys say to being godfathers a second time over?”  
  
Remus’s face shifts from surprise to delight in a second. Sirius laughs, rough and joyful as he pulls James into a hug. Remus grabs Lily’s face by the cheek and kisses her quickly.  
  
“Wonderful! Wonderful!” is all he can think to say.   
  
Lily is laughing, a bright happiness bubbling in her eyes. Sirius hugs her tightly next, then brushes his fingertips across her middle.  
  
“Hello, Marauder-sprout,” Sirius rumbles warmly.  
  
Harry squeals and grabs Sirius by the chin.  
  
“Puppy,” the baby laughs.  
  
“Indeed,” Sirius agrees with joy in his eyes. He turns to James and reclaims Neville.  
  
“Harry, you have to teach Neville your words.”  
  
Harry looks at the round-faced boy in deep concentration.  
  
“Baby,” he says assertively.  
  
Neville gapes at Harry. Then, without provocation, he bursts into laughter. Harry follows suit a moment or two later. Sirius grins at Remus.  
  
“Our family is growing rather quickly, Moony.”  
  
Remus chuckles and nods merrily. He hasn’t felt this happy in a month. It’s refreshing. Judging by Lily and James’s expressions, they feel similarly.   
  
Sirius leads their mismatched family back to the table as plates are being loaded with roast, potatoes, and leeks. He is telling the boys in his arms a loud tale about the Marauders charming the walls in the Potions classroom to emit farting noises every half hour. People are laughing and smiling, finding comfort in the simply happiness of a story from a more innocent time.  
  
From the shadows of the doorway, Peter scowls.


	5. Chapter Five

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ooo this one's long.

-Ridiculously Long Part 5-  
  
 _January 17, 1981_  
  
James remembers the first time he caught Sirius sneaking out from Remus’s bed curtains in the middle of the night seventh year. His face was flushed but grinning; the sort of expression one would liken to having just won the Quidditch World Cup. James had grabbed Sirius by the shoulders and shoved him against a bedpost.  
  
“What the hell do you think you’re doing? Moony is our _mate,_ you wanker!” James had yelled protectively. He was loud enough that he had woken Peter.  
  
Sirius had just laughed happily, while Peter looked on wide-eyed and groggy.  
  
“Prongs,” Sirius had grinned, mirth in his voice, “it’s Moony. He wants _me_.”   
  
The last three words had been breathed as if Sirius was amazed himself, as if his world had turned to pure gold.  
  
In the same awed tone, Sirius whispered, “He loves me, James. He loves me.”  
  
James had tightened his grip on Sirius’s shoulders and shoved again.   
  
“You fuck this up, Black and I swear I’ll kick your ass so hard—“ James had threatened, but he had been cut short when Remus had slid out of his bed.  
  
“James,” Remus had authority when he spoke, “I’d highly appreciate it if you removed your hands from my boyfriend… lest _I do it for you_.”   
  
James had frozen and stared at Remus as if he’d sprouted feathers. Sirius ducked out from under James’s hands and leaned up against Remus and rubbed his face into Remus’s neck. Remus had fought a smile at the action and then had pulled Sirius back into his bed. Peter has sputtered and James had gaped.   
  
And that was pretty much that.   
  
It was hard at first to accept that they were together, but, in time, he has come to see them as two people in love. After that acceptance, talking to Sirius or Remus about relationships or love or whatever, became easier.   
  
James is poring over some reports for the Order when the floo announces a guest’s arrival. He raises his wand to the portal and waits. It’s a little after lunch time when Sirius ducks out of the fireplace and dusts the floo powder off his robes.   
  
“Prongs! Can you spare a minute or two for the bloke who was going to save the universe?” he calls through the floo powder cloud around his head.  
  
James laughs, opens them both a butterbeer, and sits back at his kitchen table in preparation to hear about his best friend’s training for the forenamed destruction.   
  
He is surprised when, instead, Sirius says, “He keeps bringing Moony stuff, Prongs.”  
  
“Huh?” James replies incoherently.  
  
Sirius leans back in his chair, rocking it precariously onto two back legs.   
  
“Peter. He keeps… it’s like he’s courting Remus.”   
  
James sets his bottle on the tabletop and leans forward on his elbows. Sirius’s tone is strange. Hesitant and confused, but James thinks he hears the distinct sound of fear mixed in.  
  
“What do you mean?” James hedges.   
  
Sirius rubs the back of his neck and takes a swig of butterbeer from his bottle. The story went something like this:  
  
The first try, Peter brought a bouquet of flowers, which had made Remus laugh.  
  
"I'm not a woman, Peter."  
  
"I-- I know that," Peter had stuttered, "I've never done this before, I just thought--"  
  
Sirius had heard this and had come downstairs. Peter left pretty quickly after that. Remus threw the flowers away. Sirius didn’t mention it.   
  
The next day, Sirius had taken Neville outside to show him the bike and the two were tinkering with it, a sort of father-son bonding moment when Peter came by, this time bearing chocolates. Sirius said he came in the house to hear Remus—Remus! Moony!— _yelling_. (They both knew that Remus bristled. Remus even got mad. Remus kicked furniture, but Sirius did not need to remind James that Remus did not yell, ever, full stop.)  
  
"You have to stop this," the werewolf warned, voice nearly raised.  
  
"No," Peter replied assuredly, "you'll come around sooner or later."  
  
" _No_. No, I won't. I want you to stop this,” Remus had stated in a way that was nearly a threat.   
  
Peter had said, and Sirius had tried to recreate the voice, in a whiny, almost conniving way, "Do you even know where he is?"  
  
"I do, in fact."  
  
"Do you know whom he's with?"   
  
"Leave." This Remus yelled. That meant that he had yelled _twice_.   
  
Peter left. Sirius said he just stood outside with the baby because he knew he couldn’t go in. He’d apparently put a little motor oil on both their faces to show Remus how they’d been “doing manly things.” The joke was never seen however, because Remus had stormed into the bedroom and slammed its door.   
  
The third time, Peter had appeared with a bottle of red wine. Sirius had been down the hall in his study.  
  
"Sirius is out again?" Peter queried.  
  
"Work calls for that, from time to time." (James stops the story and asks Sirius why Remus had lied. Sirius shrugs and said that he thought Remus wanted him to hear Peter.)  
  
"So it's _work_ then?" Peter spoke accusingly as he followed Remus the kitchen. "Moony, I'm just saying that you should watch him. He’ll betray you. He's off somewhere with someone--"  
  
"Indeed, I’m sure I was. His name is Neville, and he’s a handsome bugger," Sirius replied as he leaned in the doorway to the kitchen. James could just imagine the sneer on Sirius’s face as he spoke.  
  
"Nev in bed?" Remus had asked.   
  
"Just laid him down. Wake him up and you get to sit up with him for the rest of the night." Then Sirius had turned the brunt of his anger at Peter.  
  
“Hear that, Wormtail?” Sirius’s voice had been icy, “Just to ensure that you don’t wake the baby, you had better go.”  
  
Peter set the bottle of wine on the counter and matched Sirius’s gaze for a split second. James is mildly surprised to hear that Peter challenged Sirius in any capacity. Maybe it was all those years of running with a werewolf or reading about dominate behaviors in canines, but James knows, as does Peter, what locked eyes mean.   
  
Sirius takes a sip of butterbeer.   
  
“Peter left before it could go to blows,” but Sirius wasn’t sure if he or Remus was going to throw the first punch.  
  
Then Sirius looks at James and drops his chair down onto all four legs and helplessly asks, “What do I do?”  
  
James just stares at Sirius’s helplessness and curses the world. Of course, this was just one more thing that fate has heaped onto Sirius’s plate. The man has enough to deal with and adding an apparent desperate fear that he was about to lose the man he loved did not need to go into his repertoire.   
  
James clears his throat and speaks slowly, “Do you think Wormtail… is…ugh… _in love_ with Remus?”  
  
Sirius shoots him an incredulous look while asking, “Who wouldn’t be?”  
  
James can’t help but grin. Sirius Black in love is a powerful thing to behold.  
  
“And Remus’s feelings toward Peter?”  
  
“Pretty much the same as they've ever been; I mean, he’s pretty pissed… I’m… I’m… I could kill Peter, Prongs. I could do it,” Sirius replies, his face tightening and coloring with his anger.  
  
“So, you’re telling me that Moony hasn’t shown any interest,” James asks for clarification.  
  
“Not toward Wormtail,” Sirius replies, anger lurking in his tone.  
  
“And, even though Moony isn’t interested in Wormtail _at all,_ you’re… concerned?” James asks hesitantly.  
  
Sirius spins his butterbeer bottle on the tabletop between his hands, appearing to think about his answer.   
  
“Prongs—James, I’ve got nothing to offer him anymore,” Sirius speaks quietly, the twinge of fear working its way back into his voice, “I’m in hiding, without access to any money, without any ability to protect him… he’s in danger because of me.”  
  
James sighs, “Padfoot, he’d have been in danger and in hiding himself whether he was with you or not. He didn’t--” James sighs again and suddenly thinks back to that late night in the Hogwarts dormitory.  
  
“Sirius, you remember the night I caught you and Remus together?”  
  
Sirius raises his head to meet James’s eyes, “The night we got together and you nearly killed me?”  
  
James grins and speaks with assurance, “Were either of you thinking about how much money the other one had?”  
  
Sirius squints at James and then shakes his head.  
  
“And what was Moony’s one fear about starting a relationship _with anyone_?”  
  
Sirius blinks rapidly and then, as if he’s just remembering a memory, “He was afraid that the wolf would hurt them and that I would be a pariah in society because I loved him. He was trying to protect me.”  
  
“And, you told him that you and Moony got on just fine. And as for the rest of the Muggle and wizarding world, they could go fuck themselves and that you could protect yourself,” Sirius nods as James speaks, “I’m pretty sure that Moony feels pretty much the same way.”  
  
Sirius looks back at his butterbeer bottle and smiles at it.   
  
“Thanks, Prongs.”   
  
James tells Sirius to floo home and bring Neville back to their house. He tells Sirius to take Remus to bed. It was one of those awkward conversations that James wasn’t sure about having, but then, he’d always been a good friend and he could suffer through a few nasty mental images of Remus and Sirius together if it was to benefit them.   
  
_January 18, 1981_  
  
Apparently, a baby-free “date night” hasn’t helped anything. He and Lily arrive via floo in the late morning to find Remus in his dressing gown watching Padfoot dig up tulip bulbs in the rain.  
  
Lily takes one look at the set of Remus's shoulders and appears to prepare for battle. She adjusts Neville on her hip. Remus meets their arrival with a tight smile and a rub to his eyes with white-knuckled fists.   
  
“What’s wrong?” Lily asks, moving toward him quickly.   
  
Remus smiles at her speed and taps Neville under the chin with his knuckle.  
  
“Moo!” Neville shrieks and reaches out to Remus.  
  
Remus wraps his long arms around Neville and pulls him out of Lily’s arms. He begins to rock him slowly.  
  
“Good morning, Nev,” he says tenderly to his son.  
  
Neville reaches a pudgy hand out and grabs onto Remus’s collar before settling into his father’s shoulder. Some of the tension drains out of Remus’s form as he lovingly rocks the child. James smiles at his friend. He then turns toward the watercolor hanging above the fireplace.  
  
Sirius had owled him excitedly when Neville had appeared in the painting two days after they’d brought the baby home. James is pleased to see that in the watercolor the boy is perched on Sirius’s knee looking down out of the tree limbs. Lily is guarding her belly protectively and Remus is staring at Peter’s form as if he might attack his family.   
  
Remus’s voice startles James.  
  
"Peter stopped by last night," Remus says without accusation.   
  
Lily looks at James, anger flaring in her eyes.   
  
“You told him how to get here? We have to protect Sirius, _James!_ ” She’d accused her husband of being negligent and Peter of being a traitor in the same breath.  
  
James sighs and flops into a chair. Harry squirms on his lap. This couldn’t be his reality, he thought. He’s begun analyzing the way the people he loves the most are turning on their weakest member. Oh, sure, he gets the whole carnivore verses the slowest antelope thing; he is, after all, the one of them with multiple stomachs.   
  
But Peter is vulnerable, slow, and nearly and completely empty headed. And James isn't trying to be mean when he details his friend this way. He opens his mouth to defend himself against his wife, but she’s collapsing into an empty spot on the couch, seeming to melt into the abused cushions. Remus is rubbing slow circles into Neville’s back as he looks out the rain-splattered windowpane.  
  
“So what happened, Remus?” Lily asks weakly.  
  
Remus kisses the top of Neville’s head and sets him on the floor next to a pile of his books. He looks apologetic and then tries to explain in a coded manner. "We haven’t been alone in a while, with the hiding, running, and rearing, so when Peter apparated into the house--"  
  
"He apparated directly in!?" Lily gasps, moving Harry from James’s lap onto the floor near Neville. "Wasn't he paying attention in that ‘Manners and Civilities of Apparation’ class?!"  
  
James shakes his head and smiles, "We were too busy planning the Great Calcifying Intertwining Prank.”   
  
Remus laughs; his eyes shining at the memories of chaos caused from people suddenly becoming magically fused to the people nearest to them. Perhaps the reason Remus had liked that one so much was that his arm was attached around Sirius’s middle for an entire day. Lily, on the other hand, rolls her eyes.  
  
“Oh, trust me, Potter, I remember… my shoulder was joined into Daisha Foray’s spine,” she’d grumbles, but quickly turns back to Remus who is walking back toward the window.   
  
“So Peter directly appeared in the house…” she prompts.  
  
"Basically, he came upon Sirius and I snogging on the couch." Remus looks mildly amused, but then wipes at his face with his fists again, "It startled Sirius so bad he shot off a hex without even looking at the intruder. We fell off the couch... only, ugh, my hands were sort of trapped in his trousers."  
  
Lily laughs, glorious and free at Remus’s obvious mortification. "Oh, I would have paid good money to see your face! Caught with your hand in the proverbial cookie jar!"  
  
Remus gives her a deviant smile and leans his shoulder into the wall. "Indeed."  
  
James turns his attention to the children on the floor for a moment before he had asks, "Then what?"  
  
"We ugh... zipped up," Remus blushes, "un-petrified Peter, and interrogated him to why he was popping into people's living rooms unannounced."  
  
Lily nods authoritatively. "Serves him right, seeing what he did."  
  
"But why was he there?" James queries.  
  
"Came by to... ugh... well, he brought me gifts," Remus looks distressed and turns back toward the puddling garden, "Some expensive quills and Honeydukes. Sirius thinks he's courting me."  
  
"I think he is, Moony," James offers. Remus sighs.  
  
"This is nonsense,” Remus grumbles, his fist pounding a pattern onto the window’s glass, “he's never been interested in men. I think this is part of his mission for Voldemort.”  
  
James sighs, not wanting to go back into the “is or isn’t Peter the spy” conversation once again. Remus seems to assume this, so he takes a deep breath and continues.  
  
“We kicked him out... before Sirius decided to break his nose or something and we went to bed. This morning, we ugh, attempted another go. I finally got Sirius out of his sulk and… umm... he'd been paying attention to me again... then there's Peter at the doorway of our room with breakfast on a tray."  
  
Lily arches an eyebrow, "He brought you both breakfast in bed?"  
  
"Oh, well, no. He brought breakfast for two-- but Sirius wasn't to partake. The worst part was, Sirius just... got up, punched Peter, and left. Just left the room." Remus sighs and stares at the mongrel in the downpour. Padfoot is lying in the mud, looking dejected and wet.  
  
“That’s nothing like him,” Remus whispers, eyes locked on Padfoot, “It’s like… I think, it's almost as if he's giving up. Like he thinks I'm going to give into Peter."  
  
"He does," James finds himself saying, "that's what he believes."  
  
"But I wouldn't do that, what happened that has brought him to believe that?” Remus turns quickly from the glass, “Does he think I’ll be safer with a _Death Eater_ than him? He keeps talking about how he can keep me safe… how he can… damn it. _Damn it!_ ” Remus storms away from the window and toward the kitchen but stops halfway there.  
  
“If he says anything about that… you tell him that he can go to hell before he decides that.” And Remus begins pacing about the room.  
  
"The sodding bugger deserved to be punched, hexed orange, and have his bits shrived off," Lily snarls in reference to Peter.   
  
She opens the backdoor and marches out into the rain. James watches his wife plop down into the mud puddle next to Padfoot and stroke his ears. Her hair darkens with water, like a red stone dried in the sun will turn back to river rock red when one drops it back into the stream.  
  
"James, this is all going to hell," Remus says softly from behind him.  
  
"In a hand basket, Moony."  
  
 _January 26, 1981_  
  
The Fidelius Charm has been cast for nearly two weeks now. James is proud to be Remus and Sirius’s Secret Keeper. He is pleased when Lily tells her husband that Remus admitted to her that he feels safer. He himself is comforted that Sirius holds the secret of his wife and child (children, he supposes, if he counts the one growing in Lily). Yet, it limits the company they all keep, so they form some strange calendar of coming and going to one another’s homes.  
  
Today, it’s breakfast at Remus and Sirius’s. Harry is babbling in two word sentences now and Neville is struggling to keep up. It's like some sort of competition is forming between the two. James is still irritated that Lily won’t let him take bets on which of the two will walk first. Harry chatters on about something as Lily sticks socks on his little feet.   
  
The Potters find Sirius and Neville in the kitchen. Sirius jumps and points his wand at James when he comes through the fireplace, but after some assurance to true identities, Sirius returns to scrambling eggs and sipping inky black coffee while keeping running commentary to his son’s half words. Neville sits in a high chair with a fist full of eggs giggling and patting his breakfast with open palms into the tray attached to his chair.  
  
Lily conjures a second high chair and slides her son into it. Harry grins at Neville who hollers a sharp, "Harr!"  
  
“Inside voice please,” Sirius reprimands from over the hob.  
  
"Harr!" Neville reiterates at the same volume.  
  
James laughs as Sirius dishes some magically cooled scrambled eggs onto Harry’s plate. Harry looks at his breakfast and then watches his cousin pound his defenseless eggs into the tray.  
  
“Padfoot, old man, you are something else,” James teases, watching Sirius serve his wife.  
  
“Ta, mate,” Sirius replies.   
  
He sets the fry pan on the stove and turns back to the boys in the high chairs and wipes Neville’s face with a flannel. James pours Lily and himself a cup of coffee and sits at the table.  
  
"Mmm," Sirius says with a grin, "squished eggs, a favorite."  
  
"A delicacy at the Black-Lupin-Longbottom Manor," rumbles a sleepy voice as Remus meanders into the kitchen.  
  
"Moo! Moo!" Neville exclaims, throwing some mushy eggs as he gestures.  
  
"Yes, he awakens," Sirius taunts. Remus glares through sleep-tangled fringe.  
  
Sirius smiles and passes his half-consumed cup over to Remus. Remus stares into the mug and then turns his face back toward Sirius.  
  
"This isn't tea."  
  
"Always the proper Englishman, our Moony," Sirius addresses Neville. Neville looks up at him with rapped interest and then babbles a few monosyllables.  
  
"Tea, Sirius, lest I die," Remus grumbles and drops into a chair at the table next to Lily.  
  
"Silly Moony," Sirius replies, pouring steaming water into their well used teapot.  
  
Neville returns to slapping his breakfast flat on his tray while babbling happily. Remus watches the decimation of the eggs with feigned interest until he is served tea.  
  
No one could ever accuse Remus of being a morning person, James thinks with a smile.  
  
Sirius sets the morning’s _Prophet_ , the newly filled teacup, and the freshly scrambled eggs in front of Remus before serving James. James watches all this before turning to Lily.   
  
“And you say I dote on you,” James whispers to her. Lily smiles knowingly at her husband.   
  
Remus sips from his cup and fumbles with his fork, eating his eggs without ever looking at his plate. He chokes as he reads the front page and glances quickly up at Sirius.  
  
Sirius settles into the chair across from his lover, chewing on a piece of toast mischievously. James recognizes a prank when he sees one, but he simple raises an eyebrow in question.  
  
"You charmed the front page," Remus states, sounding incredulous and exhausted.  
  
"Indeed," Sirius states definitively.  
  
"You gave the Minster of Magic breasts," Remus replies, hesitantly.   
  
James snorts in laughter.   
  
"It improves his figure, I think," Lily offers helpfully, as she looks over Remus’s shoulder.  
  
"You also left commentary about the headline," Remus continues, as if he informing a puppy that it should not wee on the floor.  
  
"I couldn't just leave it alone-- they were attacking my person!" Sirius says defensively, while pushing the jam toward James.   
  
"You... but... 'Minister Lindsey Promises to Apprehend Black by May Day' and then 'Black says _hell no_ ' isn't too much of an improvement," Remus states haltingly, in a “this-is-the-end-of-this-conversation” sort of way.   
  
James and Lily laugh out loud. Sirius grins happily and takes another bite of his over-buttered toast. Remus stares at him a moment longer and then returns to the paper.  
  
"What shall we do today, my right, honorable friends?" Sirius asks the table at large.  
  
Remus seems engrossed in reading Sirius's additions to the paper, his eyes lingering on a particularly lewd innuendo about a certain Imperiused Minister and a rhinoceros.  
  
“Last I checked, Sirius,” Lily says, taking a sip of her coffee, “we were not in the House of Lords. However, I do need to go do some shopping.”  
  
“And I need out of the house,” James amended, shifting in his seat like a jittery toddler.  
  
"What do you say, Moony?" Sirius asks, turning to his partner.  
  
Remus smiles and flicks the paper open to the inside articles without hearing the conversation. He sighs as he catches sight of the Sports headline.  
  
"No chance that you charmed all the sections, Sirius?" he asks, clearly not realizing that the others at the table are waiting for his reply to the fore mentioned question.  
  
"Nope," Sirius says with disgust, "Quidditch is still cancelled. There's a war on, you know."  
  
Remus folds the paper closed and shakes his head.  
  
"It's a shame, Portkey finally had a chance."  
  
“Like hell,” James retorts quickly, “It was going to be the Magpie’s golden year!”  
  
“James, since you have supported them, the Magpies haven’t done anything noteworthy—“  
  
“They broke every bone in the Arrow’s chaser’s body last season!” James calls defensively.  
  
Lily rolls her eyes while Sirius smiles into his cup of coffee. The boys smash their breakfast into flat, yellow eggs. The morning passes pleasantly.  
  
 _January 30, 1981_  
  
“So how’s fatherhood?” James asks, as he takes Remus’s flying cloak and hangs it on the hook by the door.  
  
“Oh, you know, nothing but sleepless nights, dirty nappies, and excessive excitement about monosyllables,” Remus replies as he sets both his and Sirius’s brooms into the broom holder in the hallway.  
  
Sirius stumbles in the door after his lover, his arms loaded down with birthday presents and a grumbling six month old. James notes that while Remus looks a little tired, Sirius looks positively run down. He moves behind his friend and glances speculatively out the door into the early evening. Seeing no one, he shuts the door and mutters a series of locking charms. As he turns, he smiles.  
  
Remus is helping Sirius out of his cloak, by unlatching the clasp at his throat and pulling the fabric loose without much trouble. Remus’s face, however, speaks volumes of humor, as if he can’t contain his mirth.  
  
“Alright then, Padfoot?” James asks, hoping that Remus’s silent teasing is not going to goad Sirius into a sulk.  
  
“Yeah, yeah… just…” Sirius turns to James and meets his eyes. James’s breath catches and he steps forward to meet his friend. There is an emptiness is Sirius’s eyes that has never been there before. It speaks of loss and loneliness, as well as an infant not yet sleeping more than five consecutive hours.  
  
“Sirius,” he begins, at the same time that Remus puts his hand on Sirius’s arm. The weight of concern and Remus’s palm, in conjunction with Neville and whatever they’ve brought for Lily’s big twenty-first birthday dinner, nearly buckle Sirius’s legs.   
  
Remus is closer to Sirius, so he grabs him about the waist and hauls him up straight. James pulls his godson from Sirius’s arms and looks toward Remus for some sort of explanation. Remus, however, is hissing at Sirius.  
  
“I thought you said you were alright to fly, you… you… lying graphorn!” Remus’s tone is more concern than anger.  
  
“I’m fine, Moony. Is graphorn really the best you can do?” Sirius retorts, pulling off his flying gloves with a sort of strained deliberation.  
  
“ _Sure, fine_ , the man says before he passes out in the Potter’s foyer,” Remus looks directly at James and sighs. “He’s been out for three straight days doing something he won’t talk about.”   
  
“I told you, Remus, the less you know—“  
  
“—Right. Because these minor pieces of information about where you’ve been, what you’ve been up to, and how you got that marvelous contusion on your _entire left side_ are going to keep me safe from Voldemort. Thank you, my love, for protecting me so completely,” Remus replies sardonically, as he helps Sirius to the couch.  
  
James follows after them, smiling slightly. They started this strange marital fussing and squabbling sometime during their fifth year at Hogwarts. Ironically, it took another year and half for them to get themselves squared away, even though, as far as James was concerned, the outcome was not unexpected. It was also little surprise that Remus ran the relationship.   
  
“Lily!” exclaims Sirius as the woman of the hour enters the living room. He stands and promptly sits back down again, holding his head.   
  
Remus frowns at him, forehead knit in worry, but turns back to Lily.   
  
“Happy Birthday,” he says and hugs her tight.   
  
“Why, thank you,” she replies, looking past Remus at Sirius in concern.  
  
“Don’t mind the prat,” Remus says, feigning disinterest, “he apparently has vertigo or something.”  
  
James sticks Neville into the playpen with Harry and joins the group around the couch.   
  
“Peter flooed and said he’d be little late,” James says to the other three.  
  
Remus’s response is immediate. His head whips up and glances around the room. Lily has pursed her lips and crossed her arms across her chest.  
  
“ _I’ve told you_ , I don’t want him in this house, James,” she says, softly but firmly.  
  
“And I’ve told _you_ , Lily,” James says, shaking his head, “it’s not Peter. There’s a mistake. It’s none of us. None of us would do that.”   
  
Lily’s eyes darken like the sea in a storm and she looks away from her husband. James shakes his head again and turns to Sirius, who hasn’t reacted to this at all.  
  
These damn accusations started on the night that they cast the Fidelius Charm on their home, and Lily had been washing dishes by hand. James was coming into the kitchen to find something to snack on when he heard his wife speak.   
  
“Remus,” she’d whispered, “I believe you; it’s Peter. James won’t hear a damn word about it though.”  
  
James stopped outside the door and continued to listen.  
  
“Neither will Sirius,” Remus had replied irritated, while he wiped a plate dry.  
  
“I’m afraid, Remus. I’m afraid that we’re next.”  
  
“That won’t happen,” Remus had reassured her affectionately, “He is our friend. He wouldn’t—“  
  
“Edgar Bones was his friend, too, Remus! He’s… a Death Eater! He doesn’t care who he hurts!”  
  
Remus had grabbed Lily and pulled her into a tight hug. “It’s all right, Lily. It’s all right. Trust me. He may know where we live, but _only_ the Secret Keeper can give away the location. Sirius wouldn’t ever dream of hurting his family; you’re safe,” he reassured her.  
  
James had turned away, angry that the two believed that Peter, _Peter!,_ was the spy. He had pretended that he hadn’t heard his wife crying into Remus’s shirt.  
  
Beyond the anger, there were other unnamed emotions floating in his belly. Maybe it was the comment about Edgar that had left James feeling so wrung out. After all, the Order has gone dormant with the recent attack on the Bones's home four days ago.   
  
Edgar Bones, a thirty-three year old man, his wife Laura, and their two daughters, Jordan and Justice were the newest additions James had written on the D.O.A. scroll. They had a lovely memorial which none of the Order had attended because Dumbledore had told them that it just wasn't safe.  
  
Instead, those who knew him mourned in silence. They had gathered for a small dinner at the headquarters remembering his quiet laugh and his fiery tempered bride. Peter had seemed the most grieved. He and Edgar had spent much time together and Peter seemed to respect the older man as a mentor. James had been pleased to see that Peter was learning from someone, without hero-worshipping them. To the bespectacled man, it proved that Peter was growing up.  
  
None of that helped settle the battle in James’s gut. James kept a lot of documentation for the Order. At the end of 1980, he’d argued that it was just bad luck that Order members were having their homes attacked. Now there is no debate; someone is systematically eliminating their numbers. He couldn’t lie about that; he held the data.  
  
James had hidden his fear away in his heart. He was, as far as his friends were concerned, their leader. He’d always been the leader of the Marauders. Oh, sure, during their school days Sirius was in charge from time to time, but even the great Sirius Black had backed down at James’s command. Maybe that’s why he didn’t bring up when he realized that, yes, there had to be a spy. James had worried when Edgar pulled him aside months ago at a meeting and asked if Peter seemed "right."  
  
"Just seems a bit off, I'd say," Edgar had whispered.  
  
James had nodded and watched Peter, the boy who was once James’s shadow, to see he could find a basis for Edgar’s statement. But Peter had seemed like himself, James thought. He drank a little too much butterbeer in celebration of Harry’s arrival and had climbed on top the coffee table and serenaded them all with some ZZ Top song. He’d shown up to full moons and scurried across the packed earth to the howls of a tawny wolf. He’d gotten giggly at his own twenty-first birthday when the fine Marauders Mr. Padfoot and Mr. Moony had jointly presented him with a set of bongo drums (which were some strange lifelong dream of the pudgy man).   
  
But slowly, like a predator stretching its limbs before the hunt, there were those lingering, cataloged moments when James felt something wasn’t quite on. For instance, Peter began stuttering again, a habit that he had overcome after their third year at Hogwarts.   
  
“Care for a pint around the corner, old chap?” Sirius had asked sometime around Christmas.  
  
“P-p-pint? N-n-no-no-no, no thank you, Pad-d-df-f-oot.”   
  
Then, starting last spring, Peter began scratching his left arm, right before the elbow for no apparent reason. It reminded James of when Moony, in wolf form, worried at his own leg during his transformation back into the man Remus Lupin.   
  
“Alright there, Wormtail?” Remus stated the first time he’d seen this behavior. Remus’s concern was weary after a full moon run.   
  
“Get into a poison vine again?” Sirius had joked, after he entered with Remus’s pain potion.   
  
“Maybe he’s gotten into Heroin?” James had offered.  
  
Peter had laughed, but then left without the Marauder’s traditional post-moon omelet.   
  
And, then, of course, Peter had fallen in love with Remus. The moments when he renewed these affections were awkward at best and James could hardly blame Sirius for the open glares he shot at their smaller friend.   
  
James had seen Peter’s first open admission to Moony, but that hadn’t prevented Sirius from telling him about the events again. It concerned Sirius that the claims were coming more often. In fact, they were so frequent now that they were nearly becoming normal.  
  
James hated to think about the kind of pressure they were putting on Sirius and Remus’s relationship. They’d had rows over their continued friendship with Peter, one so rough that Sirius had appeared at the Potter’s front door at two in morning.  
  
“Moony told me I had to give him some space. I’m sleeping on your couch,” Sirius had said heatedly, as he shoved past James and threw himself on their couch.   
  
Lily had launched into a frenzied reprimand, “You should not be out wandering around, Black! There are people who are trying to kill you, you dumb arse!”  
  
Sirius had glared at her, rolled onto his stomach, and pulled a couch cushion over his head.  
  
The next morning, James came downstairs to find Sirius having an animated conversation with Lily’s womb.   
  
“—Then he says that Peter’s the spy and we should cut him off for that. I told him that it doesn’t matter why we cut him off… we just _should_. And damn it! If that man comes onto Moony _one more time_ , I’ll—I’ll transfigure him into a… rosebush…no! _a shoe_! And then I’m going to chew on him until he’s all mushy and wet and—“  
  
Lily had laughed and suggested that Sirius go home and see Remus. Sirius had sighed and leaned into Lily’s side like a small child seeking his mother’s comfort.  
  
“I just keep screwing up, Lily. I get so angry with Wormtail… and I’m going to lose Moony if I keep this up… fuck, I need to go home.”   
  
Sirius had pulled himself up off the kitchen floor, kisses Lily’s cheek and waist, kissed Harry’s fist, waved at James, and disappeared into green flames.   
  
There had been at least two more explosive rows between the two men. Peter had been at the center of both. James worried that Remus’s prediction that it was all going to hell was coming more and more true.  
  
The hell, it appears, is continuing today as they celebrate Lily turning twenty-one. Here he faces his furious wife and angrily silent werewolf. They’ve paired into opposing sides, ready for the impending row. Tension hangs as if suspended in the air from the ceiling.  
  
“It has to be one of us, Prongs,” Remus articulates, “and there are only three of us with access to the reports that would get Death Eaters to those people’s homes. Two of them are in this room and I know neither of you are serving Voldemort.”  
  
James shakes his head, “We owl off a copy of every report to Dumbledore. Someone is intercepting them.”  
  
Lily locks eyes with James and speaks as if he had not interrupted. “Peter is the spy; he has the access to those documents about the Muggle hiding facilities we’ve set up. Every single one he’s been involved in has been targeted.”  
  
“ _ **Alright**_!” Sirius’s voice cuts through the tension, dispelling both fronts with one commanding word. “I don’t want to think about the war tonight. Please, _Merlin’s malfunctioning erection_ , I’ve been at war for three fucking solid days. Three days…” Sirius rubs his face with one open hand, running it from forehead to chin.   
  
“They keep hauling me out to see different things. This time Mad-Eye drug my sorry arse up into some Death Eater’s hideout and we snuck in and watched them fucking brainwash these kids. They’re kidnapping fucking orphans, for Circe’s sake. They bribed them with jelly slugs and skin vanishing crème and six sickles a piece, nearly three killers for a galleon.”  
  
Sirius pulls himself up off the couch, legs shaking beneath him in some mock attempt to hold him upright.   
  
“Merlin,” he whispers brokenly, successfully shattering their anger with the miserable images that his words spin, “Merlin, Merlin, _Merlin_ … I can’t, I can’t do this.”  
  
James sees that Sirius’s trembling limbs are caving under him, but he isn’t quick enough to stop his best mate from slumping to the floor. Lily, however, is at Sirius’s side and is pulling him into her arms in a moment.  
  
“Hush, hush, now. It’s alright, you’re home,” she whispers reassuringly, while rocking Sirius as if she were putting her son to bed.  
  
Sirius is speaking with a desperation James has never seen, tears spilling out of his eyes unwillingly. “They attacked us as we were leaving. And I couldn’t-- I can’t… I can’t do this. I can’t kill _children_ just because he’s evil… I can’t—“   
  
“Hush, now,” Lily says again, this time with steady force, “Voldemort knows that you’ll think like that. He’s testing your limits; he wants you to snap. You don’t worry about this right now, just rest.”  
  
James feels inadequate, half risen from his perch on the couch armrest. Remus is absolutely spellbound at the sight of Lily comforting his lover. James knows how many hours he has reassured Lily and made her empty promises about their future, so he wonders how many similar assurances Remus has made. Sirius’s body slackens and he folds over into his friend, letting his head fall onto Lily’s shoulder.  
  
She continues to rock him silently until Sirius pulls free, wipes his face on his robes, and apologizes profusely for ruining her birthday. Lily shrugs it away, stands stiffly, and then orders James to serve dinner while she attends to the boys. James notices that Sirius does not move from his place on the floor until Remus pulls him to his feet.   
  
James has not watched them often, but tonight, from the kitchen, he gazes intensely as Remus runs a scarred hand through Sirius’s hair, across his cheek, and down to cup his chin in one steady motion. He holds Sirius’s chin so that he can meet Sirius’s eyes. Both look like they want to speak, but neither actually does.  
  
It reminds James of his wedding. He and Lily had stood on a hill overlooking Godric’s Hollow. His closest friends had gathered around them, smiling at the celebration of their love. Before him, a tiny black robed Flitwick had just ordered him to recite his vows to Lily as Sirius tied a ribbon around their intertwined hands. He’d turned to face her and it was as if someone had removed all the oxygen from the world. He remembered focusing in on her face and being overwhelmed with his love for her. It must have appeared in his eyes, because suddenly, her face had registered his and she’d glowed with love. There were no words in that moment and, yet, they said more about their love for one another in those breaths than they’d ever articulated before.   
  
In his living room, Remus is physically holding Sirius on his feet. James is not fooled by the apparent innocence of this moment, he can feel the magic powered from their love swirling around him. There is a war beyond these walls heralded by those who would see Sirius broken by any means possible. Suddenly, James feels the weight of his stomach drop as if he’s just taken a nosedive on his broom. If Remus were to leave Sirius… how would Sirius hold up? He remembers Sirius’s reactions to Peter’s advances on Remus and how slowly, slowly, Sirius had become fearful that he was losing his lover. How they had begun fighting. How James noted that they seemed to be fraying apart and Sirius crumbling with these realizations. And then all that wooing appears to be some sort of strategy to disassemble Sirius.   
  
And then James believes it too.  
  
“ _Shit,_ Peter’s the spy.”   
  
But these words are drowned by the strong, but silent admissions of love shared between the two men before the fireplace.


	6. Chapter Six

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another long one.

_February 2, 1981_  
  
Sirius wakes to a cold, gray day that promises nothing but bloodied knees and heavy eyelids. Such is the existence of the one training to defeat the Dark Lord, he supposes. He wakes Neville before the baby likes to be up and they play and have breakfast hours before the sun rises. But by the time dawn has broken, after a bowl of porridge, a thorough tickling, and a book or two, Neville is ready for a kip.   
  
Sirius puts him back into his cot, praying that the break in the morning routine will be enough to let Remus get a few extra hours of sleep. He shouldn’t linger; Mad-Eye does not appreciate when anyone, Chosen One or not, is tardy for an appointment. But even the threat of that nasty spinning eye seems to be a foolish reason not to indulge himself.   
  
Sirius slips into the bedroom and settles on his knees by Remus’s bedside. The watery gray light enables him to make out shape and contrast, but not enough for him to see color or texture. Regardless, he is fixated on the sight of Remus in slumber. Remus lays flat on his stomach with the duvet pulled up so that it covers the back of his neck and the top of his head like a hood. He is facing Sirius, but there is no peace to be found in his features. Even in sleep, the worries of this life carve into his face; he looks like he’s grieving. It breaks Sirius’s heart.  
  
“I’d take you away from here if I could,” Sirius whispers, as he brushes away the graying hair with the pad of his thumb, “I’d take you somewhere safe. We’d live the rest of our lives in some little coastal town where the fishermen get up at dawn and go to sea. We’d watch them some mornings and we’d teach Neville how to count by numbering lobster traps or seashells. The neighborhood children would tease Nev for having two fathers; when Harry and he were old enough they’d beat the living shit out of those brats. We’d eat toast on the veranda and meet Lily and James for picnics on the beach. Nev and Harry and the baby wouldn’t ever know war or strife. I’d keep us safe.   
  
“We could go, Moony. We could leave right now. We could leave here and move somewhere no one knows us and our secrets.”  
  
Sirius continues to trace the curtain of feather soft hair. He lays his head on the edge of the mattress and rests his hand on Remus’s shoulder. He watches the pattern as Remus exhales.   
  
“But you wouldn’t go, would you, Moony?” Sirius whispers, his voice laden with sadness. “You’d say and fight because that’s what is right. And you’re a good man who does what is right. You’re a better man than I am, Moony. Because I’d say, ‘fuck the consequences’, I just want you safe and happy.”  
  
He strokes the sleep-mussed hair again, this time taking in the way the locks feel as they slide between his fingers. Remus, still looking worn and sad, seems to relax as Sirius’s fingers contact his hair.   
  
“I’m trying…” Sirius halts his whispered soliloquy when Remus’s brow wrinkles. He begins again when Remus relaxes again in sleep, “I’m trying to be a man you’re proud of, Remus. I’m trying to give you the life you want for all of us. And if I have go out in a ball of glory to defeat that bastard, then Moony, I will, because I want you to be happy and safe and whole, Remus. Promise me, _promise me_ , Moony that you will be, _no matter what._ ”  
  
There is more to say, more things that should be said in the confidence of nighttime and to the conscious Remus Lupin, but for all his Gryffindor courage, Sirius cannot. Remus would give him that look that spoke of disappointment and sorrow and old-age-too-many-years-too-soon that absolutely demolished Sirius’s heart. No, it was far safer to whisper these things into his sleeping lover’s ear and hope that the message was received.  
  
He stands slowly, feeling the cold and dreariness of the morning ebbing into his knees. Even still, he pauses to bend over the one he loves and place a warm-lipped kiss onto the cool brow. Sirius passes his fingers through Remus’s fringe one last time before striding to the door.   
  
Maybe it is the wariness from a life of lycanthropy and the turmoil of war working as a catalyst for Remus’s deep slumber. No matter the reason, he does not stir as Sirius slips back out of the room. Sirius glides down the hallway, pausing only to check to see that, yes, the towheaded infant is sleeping also.   
  
He does not wait any longer. He grabs his cloak and steps out into the dawn and the garden. There is the smell of snow in the air. Squirrels chatter unseen in the trees above him. It’s too cold for them to come out and face him, so they just hurl down their insults from the safety of their leaf-lined lairs.  
  
He pulls his scarf closer and apparates to meet Mad-Eye in an empty flat. A fire is burning on the hearth; it offers some heat to the chilly room, but the lack of items in the room leave no shadows on the walls. The overall effect is eerie.   
  
It is no surprise when Moody places his gnarled hand on Sirius’s shoulder and his knotted pine wand into the small of Sirius’s back.  
  
“Bang,” he growls near Sirius’s ear, “you’re dead, Black.”   
  
Sirius doesn’t reply which leads Mad-Eye to poke Sirius with his wand and grumble.  
  
“Vigilance, Black. And more of it!” he grouses as he hobbles past Sirius toward the fire.  
  
“Still no catch phrase, I take it,” Sirius chirps as he joins his mentor in the warm glow.  
  
“Shut it. You have more important things to focus on than taking the lark out on me,” Mad-Eye growls dangerously.   
  
Sirius squats down and waits for his instructions. Moody, however, conjures an armchair and settles into it.   
  
“We’re strategizing?” Sirius asks, while mentally planning to conjure a chair with a footrest.  
  
“No, Black. You’re preparing and I’m going to have a bit of a lie-down.”  
  
Sirius squirms. He does not appreciate being forced away from his home at the arse-crack of dawn to play verbal games with a wizard who is missing more than half of his original body parts.   
  
“Shall I brew you a Draught of Eternal Sleep, then?” Sirius asks, his question laced with ice.  
  
Moody’s magic eye swirls around and locks on the pouch tied at Sirius’s waist. He does not explain himself, simply begins to speak.   
  
“In Muggle literature there was a bloke named Dante,” Moody says quietly.  
  
“I wasn’t aware that you could read, Mad-Eye,” Sirius quips with weary annoyance.   
  
Moody glares, but continues, “He wrote about his experiences with the Resurrection Stone in a manner that would scare the hell out of his political opponents.”  
  
Sirius squints into Moody’s face, attempting to make out the reality of this tale.  
  
“Dante was a Muggle,” Sirius asserts, but there is an unintentional questioning lilt to his statement.   
  
“A squib.”  
  
“Who somehow got the Resurrection Stone to Italy.”  
  
“Black. Shut your gob. I don’t know the specifics,” Moody snarls angrily, “but I know that what you are about to do has scared men into their graves. I know that Dante took what he saw and used it for his own vengence. You, however, need to know how to use the tool that has been given to you. You can’t expect to defeat Voldemort with ‘power over the dead’ if you’ve not experienced every facet of those powers.”  
  
“So I’m going to see the levels of Hell?” Sirius asks incredulously.  
  
Moody glares down at him. The room’s silence is broken by a log popping in the fire.   
  
“When you put on that ring, you’re going to command the Dead to show you how you could die. And then you’re going to see it. When the Dead have had enough with you, you’ll come back here. Now get the hell on with it.”  
  
Sirius continues to stare at the wizard before him.  
  
“What will I see?” Sirius asks, his voice twinged with a hint of fear.  
  
“Are you just incapable of listening, Black? You will see the ways you could die. You may see the way you’ll actually go. Now, get a move on it. Time is different with the Dead.”   
  
Sirius waits as another heartbeat passes before he stands and begins to unknot the bag at his waist. Mad-Eye is not watching him, but his magic eye keeps swiveling back to check on his progress.   
  
The ring is cold in his palm, it reminds him of the cutting winter wind at Uncle Alphred’s funeral and the emptiness he felt the first time his mother told him he was dead to her. He slides the frigid metal onto his left hand where a wedding band would sit if this world wasn’t so prejudice. The warmth of the fire seems to drift away like body heat on a winter night.  
  
“Call them out, boy,” Mad-Eye commands, but his voice is empty and decaying.   
  
Sirius is unsure how to go about this and he assumes Moody has not given him instructions for the very same reason.   
  
“Oi, you dead lot,” Sirius attempts humor, but it feels dull like ash covered glass on his tongue, “come show me how I die.”  
  
A gust of wind—colder than Sirius has ever felt—sweeps into the room and extinguishes the fire. The wind ushers in hundreds of whispering voices, all speaking at Sirius like livid professors demanding that he pay attention. The voices swirl around Sirius, forming a column wall that separates him from his living companion.   
  
Then, the column reforms into a woman’s shape.  
  
“Sirius Black,” she says in a voice that used to be friendly and warm, but now only sounds hollow.  
  
“Mrs. Lupin!” he stutters in surprise, watching as the voices and wind swirl into the woman who nurtured his love.  
  
The Dead curl around, as if they are James’s blue watercolor stirred in a glass of water, forming the arch of an eyebrow and the contrast of cheekbone that Caroline Lupin’s genetics passed onto Remus. It is strange, he thinks, that his own Virgil will be his mother-in-law.  
  
“Why do you seek to know your death?” she asks in that same emotionally barren way.  
  
“So that I may…” here Sirius stumbles.  
  
He doesn’t know why he wants to see his death. In fact, he’d rather not know at all. But Moody has commanded him to do this and he has followed the order. Surely, this must be another step toward defeating Voldemort.  
  
“I must kill a man and I think this will help me do that,” he answers without conviction.  
  
Mrs. Lupin does not react well. Her lips draw into a tight light and her nostrils flare.   
  
“You gave my son a far better answer this morning,” she replies without passion, although her body speaks of anger.  
  
Sirius struggles to remember his words from Remus’s side, “I want to… make him happy. I want to be a better person. I need to be a better man to make Remus proud.”  
  
Caroline nods and extends her hand and Sirius takes it without question.   
  
Sirius admits that he thought the wind was cold. In comparison to the soul-freezing touch of Caroline Lupin’s hand, the wind was a tropical breeze. The cold, however, numbs his mind and he is unable to think about anything but watching the scene that plays out before him.  
  
The blue watercolors swirl around him until they form a scene. The Dead slowly leak in colors until he recognizes what is before him.  
  
It is his bedroom, illuminated by a waning moon.   
  
There is the wail of a baby and Sirius—older, probably in his early thirties with long black and silver-striped hair—groans and begrudgingly throws his feet out from under the duvet.  
  
“I’ve got her, Padfoot,” Remus says with a sleep-scratchy croak.  
  
“Nope,” Sirius replies assertively and pulls the duvet back overtop Remus’s head, “Moon was last night. You sleep.”  
  
“Padfoot, there will be full moons for the rest of my life,” Remus grumbles into the pillow.  
  
“Yep, and I will let you take care of two-in-the-morning screaming babies another day. Go back to sleep,” Sirius commands and walks out into the hall.  
  
It’s almost as if he’s watching a Muggle film; he is carried along with everything he needs to see. The vision carts him down the hall to the nursery, where he watches as his older body retrieves a pink-pyjamaed infant from her cot. It is too hard to constantly consider that he is watching himself, so he just loses himself in the scene before him.   
  
The older Sirius carries the baby out into the hall and down into the kitchen.  
  
“What is your problem, huh, kid?” Sirius teases, but she just takes another deep breath and screams louder.  
  
Sirius rolls his eyes and mutters something about his mother getting her payback. He rocks the baby while he fixes a bottle for her and, once finished, collapses into a kitchen chair with her.  
  
“Alright, you,” he begins while coddling her, “how about a snack?”  
  
There is a rustle in the hallway a flaxen haired child, about five or six years old, appears in the doorway.  
  
“Padfoot?” the boy asks.  
  
“Nev, what are you doing up?” Sirius asks.   
  
“Couldn’t sleep,” Neville replies, while rubbing at his eyes.  
  
“I doubt that highly,” Sirius says, but pats his knee and Neville runs into the kitchen and climbs into Sirius’s lap.  
  
Sirius swings his unburdened arm around Neville and rocks both children. Neville lays his head on Sirius’s shoulder and pulls at a few of his father’s long, black hairs.   
  
“Padfoot?” Neville asks, once he’s settled, “will you tell me a story?”  
  
Sirius smiles. “What would you like to hear, my lad?”  
  
“Tell about that time that you and Uncle Prongs hit three Death Eaters with a police car,” Neville says with excitement.  
  
“Why do you like that one so much?” Sirius asks, looking down at the child.  
  
Neville smirks, a quality that makes him look like Remus, “Because every time you tell it Moony gets mad at you for not Oblivating those Muggle bobbies.”   
  
“Ah, so you like when I get in trouble, huh?” Sirius readjusts the baby in his arm.   
  
Neville looks thoughtful and then asks, “You know how you and Moony always tell me stories about my Mum and Dad?” Sirius nods. “Will you tell Lydia stories about her Mum, too?”  
  
Sirius sighs and seems to consider his answer, “Yes, Nev. I will as best I can. Moony knew Lydia’s Mum better than I did; she was Ravenclaw prefect a few years behind us. Your Aunt Lily really knew her well; Aunt Lily tutored her in Charms.”  
  
“Will you tell one now?” Neville asks with a renewed tug on Sirius’s hair.  
  
Sirius pauses to think and then smiles as if remembering, “Once, when Moony, Uncle Prongs, Aunt Lily, and I were in our sixth year, Lydia’s Mum tried to turn her eyes purple—“  
  
The story, however, is interrupted by the back wall of the house exploding. Sirius drops out of his chair, pulling both children to his chest and tucking down overtop them. The bottle drops away as he pulls them with him behind the wall to the kitchen.  
  
Sirius yells up the stairs, “ _REMUS_! It’s him! He’s here!”  
  
Sirius then turns back to the children clutched at his chest. Lydia is screaming and Neville is sobbing with fear.  
  
“Alright, buddy,” he says as affectionately and calmly as he can to Neville, “you remember how we always practiced for what would happen if Voldemort came to find us?”  
  
Neville sobs, “Yes.”  
  
“Alright, good. Take your sister,” and Sirius passes Lydia into Neville’s arms, “You go to Moony and you three leave with the portkey from upstairs. Ok?”  
  
“Yes—no! Padfoot, I don’t want to leave you!”  
  
“I’ll be right behind you. You know I love you, right, Nev? You know that I love you very much?”  
  
Neville just nods. Sirius pulls the child closer and kisses the top of his head.  
  
Sirius’s voice breaks when he gives his next instruction. “Good, now when I tell you to, you run for the upstairs to Moony, ok?”  
  
Neville nods.   
  
Sirius leans out around the wall and can see Voldemort leading a charge with Dolohov and Peter flanking him a step behind. In the hallway at the top of the steps, Remus is crouching with his wand at the ready. Sirius catches his eye and offers a tight smile. Remus looks pale.   
  
“Nev, you ready?” Sirius asks, without break eye contact with Remus.  
  
Remus raises his balled fist to his lips and kisses it. The same kiss he gave to Harry’s fist when he met him; the Marauder’s kiss. Sirius returns it and tries to give another smile. Then Voldemort fires at the wall separating him from Sirius. Sirius leaps into action. He throws Neville toward the stairs as he runs out into the living room.   
  
Remus jumps down a few of the stairs, firing off a stunner at Peter and a shield charm on his children.  
  
“Hurry, Neville, hurry!” he calls.  
  
The children are clutched to Remus’s chest as he tumbles on shaky legs back toward the bedroom. Sirius does not watch them retreat. He _Avada-Kedavra’_ s Dolohov and Peter in two quick-fire spells and is left to face Voldemort in the dusty remains of his living room.   
  
“You should knock next time,” Sirius offers with faux-generosity, “or, better yet, send an owl ahead and I’ll be sure to buy crumpets.”  
  
“You’re a fool, Black,” Voldemort sneers, “and your foolish love for your family has killed your friends the Potters.”  
  
Sirius’s eyes betray his otherwise expressionless face. His eyes are cold steel, flared with anger and grief. Voldemort has killed his brother and his family. Voldemort or his followers will kill Remus and their children whom have just portkeyed to the Potter’s house.  
  
“It’s a shame you have never known love worthy of dying for—“ but Sirius’s words are cut short by Voldemort’s non-verbally cast Killing Curse.  
  
The scene shifts and reforms into a room in the Ministry of Magic somewhere. Sirius is dueling with his cousin Bellatrix when she fires off a stunner to stop his cocky taunting. He falls gracefully backward into a veiled archway.   
  
The scene reforms to a battlefield. Remus is at Sirius’s side and he can hear James calling out spells behind him somewhere. The battle could easily be a chessboard, the Death Eaters in their black robes and silver masks, while the Light, the scant Order members and a few goblins and house elves, donning any other color. Sadly, the statistics do not look good. There are easily two Death Eaters to every one of those witches and wizards fighting for the Light. Even though they are entirely outnumbered, Remus is humming while he flicks his wand at the mask before him.  
  
“Enjoying yourself, Moony?” Sirius yells over his shoulder as he turns his face to avoid a shower of Death Eater blood.  
  
“Not particularly,” Remus replies between bars of his tune, “I’d much rather be listening to the Tornados verses the Falcons on the wireless while you gave me a backrub.”  
  
“You’d really like it if that backrub turned into a blowjob,” Sirius jokes, while preparing for the reinforced Death Eaters to attack.  
  
Remus arches an eyebrow in preparation for his own jest, but it dies on his lips as a curse hits him square in the chest. Sirius watches in stunned horror as Remus’s body drops to the ground; there is no drama, just gravity staking its claim. Sirius falls to his knees to Remus’s side, already knowing what he will find when he looks into beloved eyes. All the same, the lifeless reflections he sees there leave him yelling in unarticulated grief. He turns to look up and before him stands Albus Dumbledore, who is removing his hideous silver mask.   
  
“You would not save my love, Black,” he says, without his typical eye twinkle, “thus, I would not spare yours.”  
  
Sirius tangles his fingers in the front of Remus’s robes and glares up at Dumbledore.  
  
“Grindelwald was truly evil; you are a fool if you cannot see that,” Sirius retorts brokenly.  
  
“And Lupin was a Dark Creature.”  
  
“He is— _was_ a good man. A better man than me.”  
  
When the curse falls him beside Remus, Sirius is no longer angry.  
  
The scene changes to the inside of St. Mungo’s. Sirius is an old, wrinkled wizard lying in a crisp white hospital bed. James, equally old and wrinkly, is lying beside him on top of the sheets. There are various people milling about the room. Sirius can identify a few of them. Harry and Neville are in their late fifty’s. There is a ginger haired girl who looks like James (Sirius assumes it must be the baby that Lily is carrying), she is talking to a small, blonde girl. There are some people who are most likely spouses and assorted other Hogwarts’ aged people who look like one of the three children. Other than Sirius and James, none look too comfortable.  
  
“Nev,” Sirius begins in a crackling paper-like voice, “any words for Moony?”  
  
Neville leans on the bed, watching James pull a flask out of his robs and take a swig before passing it to Sirius.  
  
“Yes,” he says decisively, “tell him that I tried to keep you out of trouble as best I could. Tell him I failed miserably and I’m sorry for that. Tell him… tell him I miss him, Padfoot, but that I’m glad you’re together again.”  
  
Neville looks at the bedspread before reaching up and grabbing his father’s hand in a death grip.  
  
“Don’t go yet, Padfoot,” he begs, more like a ten-year-old child than a grandfather-aged man.   
  
“Nev,” Sirius rattles back, “I’ve been without my Moony for nearly fifteen years. I’ve got no one to hang out with but this old geezer,—and he’s a bit off without his girl, these days—“  
  
“Thanks, you old flea-bitten stray,” James snarls sarcastically, snatching the flask back.  
  
“—you, your sister, and these kids. I’m an old dog. I can’t keep up with ‘em and that makes me depressed too. This is best, Nev.”  
  
Neville squeezes Sirius’s hand tighter.   
  
“At least wait until Lydia is well enough to see you, Pads,” he begs.  
  
“You have to look after her, Nev,” Sirius orders, but it’s a weak command. “The moon will start taking more and more out of her the older she gets.”  
  
Harry shakes his head and puts his hand on his cousin’s shoulder, “Don’t worry, Padfoot, we’re going to take good care of her. She’s spent the moon with me and Ginny and the kids last night. She made Lily read her Potion’s essay out loud to her.”  
  
Sirius offers a weak smile and elbows James in the ribs, “Hear that? Both my kids turned out to be just like Moony.”  
  
“Yeah,” James quips, “just what you always wanted: three Hogwarts professors in your life.”  
  
Sirius begins to chuckle, but his laugher is cut short by a bone-rattling cough. James grabs him around the shoulders and hauls him into a tight hug. James leans down and speaks directly into his friend’s ear.  
  
“You have been the best mate anyone could ask for,” James’s aged voice cracks, “I never dreamed I go to school to learn a little swish and flick, and, instead, find my brother. I will miss you every hour after you leave me, you selfish hound. But…”  
  
James pauses while Sirius coughs again.  
  
“You tell Lily that I’ll see her soon and I love her. You, Peter, and Moony get together and tell embarrassing stories about me, all right? And, I’ll buy the Marauders a round when I get there. You tell them… you tell them I’m ready to come home, just as soon as I see my granddaughter Rose have her baby.”  
  
Sirius nods, but his reactions are slowing down. He leans back a bit to meet James’s eye.  
  
“If Rose names that baby Qwara, I will personally haunt her.”  
  
He coughs again while those around him laugh. Sirius squeezes Neville’s hand.  
  
“Tell Lydia that I love her and we’ll see her when she comes over. I love you, son.” He squeezes Neville’s hand again and then turns to look at Harry and the red headed girl behind him.  
  
“Harry, I will miss seeing you play Quidditch. I love you, kid. Elle, I love you, child. Be safe with those damn Goblins.”  
  
Both Potter children mummer replies through teary eyes and the room beyond them stills. James hugs Sirius tighter as his coughs become more frequent, but with less enthusiasm.  
  
“And you, you fucking old antelope, don’t be in any hurry to buy us that round. We’ll wait for you. We may be damn pissed by the time you get there… James… everything you said before… I know, mate. _I know_.”  
  
They sit in that stillness for some time. James still talking to Sirius, who nods or laughs a little. The children—no longer really children at all—add in story pieces, but they too fall silent as Sirius falls into a light slumber.  
  
James hugs him tightly as he breathes his last lungful of air.  
  
The scene adjusts to Sirius bound before the Dark Lord on his knees. Sirius’s face is twisted in a sneer, but Voldemort looks humored.   
  
“Such a sad ending for the brave, wouldn’t you say?” Voldemort asks in the direction of Lucius Malfoy’s corpse.  
  
When the dead man offers no response, Voldemort tutts, “Malfoy was a self-possessed man. But he was nothing compared to your werewolf. I actually thought that Lupin wouldn’t ever break; some confided in me that Dark Creatures are incapable of emotions and I was wasting my energy. But you and I know that those who believe so are fools, don’t we, Black?”  
  
Sirius chances a glance over Voldemort’s shoulder. Beyond Malfoy’s body are the crumpled and bloodied forms of four-year-old Neville and Lily. James is still shaking from the after effects of the Cruciatus Curse and the murder of his wife. Peter stands guard over him and Remus.  
  
Remus’s eyes are hollow. His lips are chapped and broken, but stand out blood-red against Remus’s parchment-white skin. The dark circles under his eyes are more pronounced than Sirius has ever seen them. He meets Sirius’s eyes.  
  
Peter leans down and begs Remus, “Just give in. Just say you’ll have me and I can beg on your behalf. You can be spared. Just say you’ll have me.”  
  
Remus’s tongue slides out and licks his bleeding upper lip slowly. Then with a shaking left arm, he raises his hand and shows Peter a two-fingered salute.  
  
“Cheers, Moony,” James’s words tremble out, as if he’s trying to sound cock-sure through his grief.  
  
Peter kicks him. James falls over with a gasp. Remus blinks slowly, but never looks away from Sirius. Sirius turns back to Voldemort.  
  
“Let’s get on with this, Riddle,” he says emotionlessly.   
  
Voldemort’s red eyes fizzle with anger. He snaps his wand at Sirius and the binding spell falls away. Before Sirius can climb to his feet however, Voldemort whispers a curse and Sirius yells in pain. The Cruciatus Curse leaves his limbs trembling and his muscles aching. With the spell’s retreat, Sirius gets a clear view of Lily’s body.   
  
The sight of his friend’s lifeless form inspires him to motion. He raises his hand and wandlessly fires off an ancient spell. Voldemort’s eyes flash open and he’s held motionless against Sirius’s attack. Peter jumps into action and “ _stupefy_ ” reverberates against the walls of the Riddle home. Sirius falls away and Voldemort shakes his head slowly, as if waking from a dream.  
  
“Your magic has little power, Black,” he rumbles, as he shoves past Peter to advance on Sirius.  
  
“Your soul is destroyed Riddle and your body is now cursed,” Sirius sneers, “you’ll soon find that my magic has accomplished what it set out to do.”   
  
Voldemort pauses in his advance, but then raises his wand and speaks the Killing Curse. He voice fails on the last syllable, but the green ray fires out all the same. Voldemort reaches up and grabs his heart. His knees give out and he falls onto the moldering floor. His eyes blink once, twice, and then the red fades away like a car’s break light cresting a hill. And Voldemort dies.  
  
Peter squeaks in fear as James stands to his feet and pulls Remus up along side him. Peter moves to run from the room, but James has stunned and bound him before he can complete the motion.   
  
Sirius is lying on the floor with his hair splayed out behind him. His breathing is irregular and labored.   
  
When James and Remus come to his side, Sirius reaches up and guides James’s wand to his heart. James’s face falls. His eyes follow his wandtip down to his best friend’s chest and then fly back over his shoulder where his wife lies.  
  
“I can’t. I’ve already lost too much,” he begs slowly, “Padfoot, I can’t.”  
  
Sirius’s hand quivers and pulls James’s wand back into his chest again as if he is repeating his request. James shakes his head desperately.  
  
“The spell wasn’t cast all the way, Sirius,” James begs, his voice trembling as he tries to convince himself of his own lie, “you’ll be fine.”  
  
“His soul is already shattered, that’s what it does,” Remus whispers, his voice more gravelly than ever before, “please, James.”  
  
Sirius’s fingers tighten over James’s.   
  
“I can’t,” James repeats, casting his eyes back to Lily.  
  
James turns back when Remus intertwines his fingers over Sirius’s and holds James’s hand to his wand. Remus rests his other hand on Sirius’s stomach and makes a soft cry before he whispers the spell that James isn’t strong enough to cast.   
  
The scene swirls into the Great Hall of Hogwarts. Wizards, witches, and Death Eaters are circled around as Sirius and Voldemort face off. Voldemort raises his wand, but Sirius’s Killing Curse is faster. As the spell collides with Voldemort’s body it explodes backward, engulfing Sirius in a ball of red fury and throwing his body with its force.  
  
As the smoke clears, a witch’s voice calls out “He-Who-Shall-Not-Be-Named is dead! He’s dead!”   
  
And people erupt in cheers.  
  
James runs toward Sirius and yells in sickened fascination when he sees that Sirius’s lower body has been blown away. He falls to his friend’s side. James hugs Sirius to him with Sirius’s back to his chest.  
  
“You did it, Pads, you did it,” he repeats through tears.  
  
“Prongs— _James,_ don’t let Moony see me like this,” Sirius whispers, his voice ripped away from him from the pain.  
  
Lily appears through the smoky haze as he requests this and she pulls of her battle-beaten cloak and spreads it across his lap. She reaches up and strokes his blood-crusted cheek.  
  
“You’ve been so brave, Sirius. I’m so proud of you,” she coos through her tears.   
  
Sirius grimaces in pain, but leans into her hand. Then Remus is stepping over Peter’s body to be at Sirius’s other side. He runs his own death-stained hands through Sirius’s singed hair.   
  
“Sirius,” he begins, but his hoarse voice chokes and he can only drop his head into Sirius’s shoulder.  
  
“I love you… all three…” Sirius whispers and tries another smile, but wheezes instead, “love you.”  
  
And he dies.  
  
The voices swirl around him again and the numbing cold seems to linger, but for the first time he is aware of it. Caroline stands before him again, in that strange, watery existence.  
  
“You have seen enough,” she says, and Sirius thinks he may hear a bit of concern in her voice.  
  
“I want to die an old man who lives in peace with those he loves,” he whispers to the apparition before him, “that’s what you wanted too.”  
  
Caroline’s eyes are filled with longing, but her voice is devoid of all emotion.  
  
“Yes. Yes, Sirius, that is what all the living want. I pray that you find it,” she seems to be fading before his eyes, returning to wherever he called her and the whispering disembodies voices came from.  
  
“Tell my son—tell Remus that I love him. Tell him that I am glad he found love. Take care of him, Sirius.”  
  
And she is whisk away into the wind of the Dead.   
  
And Sirius is alone in an empty room. Moody and his armchair are gone. The fire on the hearth is a distant memory. Then, his legs give out from exhaustion and he falls to the floor. Sirius finds himself feverish and he wonders if he can apparate home.  
  
He finds his wand in his sleeve and grips it tightly, dreaming of his home. His mind’s eye can see Remus hunched over a scroll and Neville having a bath with a rubber Diricawl. He disappears with this dream and finds himself in the hallway outside the Potter’s kitchen. Not quite home, but it will do. He looks up at the sound of a child’s wail. Harry is screaming like a banshee and James is pacing long-legged strides up and down the hallway in an attempt to calm him.  
  
Sirius is about to verbalize his existence when he realizes he is desperately thirsty. He struggles to his feet and only succeeds in falling against the hallway wall. James stops mid-step and grins.  
  
“Pads!” he calls and begins to walk toward him.   
  
Sirius continues to stagger down the wall, aiming for the water closet. It’s only a few steps more. James grabs him by the elbow and attempts to guide him toward the sofa, but Sirius fights back, still trudging forward. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Remus coming out of the kitchen with a clean-faced Neville. He sees Sirius and hurries to his side. There is worry etched into his brows, but also a happy smile forming.  
  
“Padfoot,” Remus says affectionately, but then his voice changes into admonishment, “you’ve been gone for days! Where the hell have you been?”  
  
Sirius could stop and talk, but his throat is raw from thirst. He stumbles forward, only staying on his feet because James is holding onto his arm. Finally, he reaches his destination, throws open the door, and nearly falls into the room. He sees that Lily is folded over the commode, retching.  
  
He doesn’t stop to say hello but turns on the tap. He cups his hands under the stream of cool water drinking desperately from his hands in fast, bird like motions. He hears James and Remus behind him, but he still cannot talk. Remus ducks into the water closet and stands behind Sirius rubbing his hands up and down Sirius’s spine.  
  
“Slow down, Padfoot, you’re going to make yourself sick,” he says softly, but Sirius does not heed him.  
  
Sirius gulps another palmful of water and then begins to cough violently. He simultaneously tries to take another drink and cough. Remus grabs him around the waist, pulling his diminished frame against his own. In the mirror, Sirius is surprised to see that he is drawn and, judging by the way his robes hang off his body, he appears to have lost two stone in weight. Talking to the Dead was clearly more taxing than he expected.   
  
“Easy. Easy, Padfoot,” he coos as he hugs Sirius tightly, “I won’t let them hurt you, you’re safe now.”  
  
Sirius coughs again and rubs at his nose with the back of his hand. He stares at Remus sadly and wishes Remus could have seen his mother. In truth, there was really no one who hurt him. He lets his forehead rest against Remus’s.   
  
Remus steps back a smidgen, and says, with equal concern and surprise, “You’re burning up.” Remus rubs a concerned hand across Sirius’s brow and Sirius leans into his palm.  
  
“May I have some privacy,” Lily groans from the floor next to the toilet.   
  
She lies down on the cool tile and closes her eyes against the thumping in her head and the uproar in her stomach. Sirius feels her pain. He does not open his eyes when she grouses next.  
  
“As glad as I am to see you after three days of not hearing from you, I’d rather be miserable alone. I think morning sickness might be fate’s way of punishing me for planning to have children with only fifteen months age difference and I’d like to wallow in that, please.”   
  
Remus pulls Sirius out of the water closet and sits him on the sofa where he left Neville moments before. He runs his hands over Sirius’s fever-heated skin.  
  
“Where have you been, Padfoot?” Remus asks with equal parts of concern and tenderness.  
  
When Sirius attempts to say “With Mad-Eye,” he finds that he has lost his voice. Where there should be words there is only a whoosh of air.   
  
Remus tugs Sirius into his chest and hugs him tightly. Neville reaches out and grabs a chubby handful of Sirius’s long dark hair. James enters the room bearing his screaming son and a goblet.  
  
James dotes out Pepperup Potion while cooing “C’mon Sirius, my little shining lump of starlight, take your potion…” to which Sirius snatches the goblet, drains it, and, while steam is shooting out his ears, uses it as a projectile at James’s head.   
  
The goblet hits James in the center of his forehead with a satisfying clunk. Sirius does not get to enjoy this however, as he passes out as the goblet leaves his fingers. Remus glares at Sirius for using the last of his energy to chuck something at James and then at James for antagonizing Sirius while he’s ill.

 _February 7, 1981_  
  
Lily spends the next days suffering from extreme nausea. She feels out of sorts, as if she’s not comfortable in her own home. She’s been trapped in these walls for far too long. An exit is welcome, so she goes to visit Remus and Sirius in Banbury.   
  
Remus had requested that she assist him with some research for Sirius. She’s sent out six separate owls requesting information on immortality; she’s assembled several fifteen-inch parchments of notes on drafts that stay death and on necromancy spells. Lily isn’t even sure why she’s looking for these things and it’s about time Sirius explains why he’s interested.   
  
She comes through the floo with her notes and looks around the empty living room. The house is shadowy and still in the dreary afternoon. She can hear the patter of rain on the roof and, from down the hall, the yearning melody of Sirius playing his violin.   
  
She is surprised to hear him up at all. He was so weak, she expected him to be bundled up under the duvet in his bed. According to Remus, Sirius’s fever will not break. He’s having fever-induced dreams about seeing Remus’s mother and his own death. Remus told her that Sirius has woken up calling out each of his loved ones’ names and gasping about Voldemort, Dumbledore, Peter, and someone named Lydia on a number of occasions. Apparently, he claims he’ll enlighten Remus when he’s feeling better. Lily knows her friends well; while Remus tells her this with a smile, she can see the strain Sirius’s illness is taking on him. Then again, maybe it’s just the secrets Sirius is hiding.   
  
Once, years ago, Lily had come home from a girl’s-day-out at Diagon Alley to find her mother sobbing over a Jane Austen novel. She’d rushed to her mum’s side and begged her to explain what had upset her. Catherine Evans was a gentle woman; she’d hugged Lily to her and kissed her cheek.  
  
“Oh, love, when you marry, please remember this: secrets can tear people apart. Be open and honest, my Lily.”   
  
Lily never did learn which of her father’s secrets had led to her mother’s tears, but she supposed that was best. As she walks down the hallway toward the melodious whine of the violin, she wonders how many secrets Sirius will have to keep from them.   
  
She prays that those secrets will not destroy what he and Remus have.   
  
The door to Remus’s study is ajar so that he can listen to the music that Sirius so aptly performs. Lily smiles cheekily; knowing Remus he is actually listening for Sirius to pass out again from his illness.   
  
Remus is sitting behind his desk, reading to Neville from a children’s book. Lily seats herself in an armchair and listens to the dance that the rain, the violin, and the professorly hum of Remus’s voice make. Neville sits in his father’s lap. He is still, with the exception of his sleep-heavy eyelids. These drift shut and then fly open again with a jerk of his body, the universal struggle of the child against the afternoon kip.   
  
Lily rests her head back against the fabric of the chair, enjoying the peace that has been handed to her. It is a welcome juxtaposition to the mood at her home. She finds that if she just focuses on this moment in time, she can forget about the war’s presence in her life.   
  
Down the hall, Sirius pauses and repeats the bar he is playing. He slows the tempo down and tries it again and again until he’s mastered the particular section. He hesitates while selecting a place to begin from. In the same moment of indecision, Remus pauses to turn the wide, cardboard page of the book. In that instant, Lily can hear the tap of raindrops on shingles, the flicker of fire on the candle’s wick, and the slow, sleepy breathing of an infant. She folds her legs under herself and closes her eyes as Bach floats down the hallway and Remus reads,  
  
“So Carl the Knarl traveled down the lane to Mrs. Beanspur the Snidget’s home for tea—“  
  
And she sleeps.   
  
_February 8, 1981_  
  
Sirius is sitting on the floor with his back to Remus’s desk when she wakes up. Judging by the darkness outside the windows, the afternoon is long past and, according to Remus’s pocket watch sitting on the desktop, it is after two in the morning. Remus is still seated at his desk, scribbling on a scroll by a dripping candle’s light. Lily can see that he’s procured her notes on the immortality draughts and is copying portions into his own shorthand.   
  
Sirius rubs at his forehead with the back of his hand and coughs. Lily leans forward and caresses his head like a mother would her sick child. Remus raises his head at her movement.  
  
“James brought Harry over for dinner. They’re staying over, in the room down the hall,” he says softly.  
  
Lily nods and touches Sirius’s forehead.  
  
“You’re still hot to the touch, Black,” she says with concern.  
  
He ducks under her mothering hand and meets her eyes.  
  
“Evans, you’re the eldest, right?” he asks in a tired voice.  
  
The question gives Lily pause. The war has hung heavy on her for such a long time, like the day before was covered with a low-clouded sky. The clouds are like sentinels, gray and heavy, heaped upon one another like the mounds in her life: war, betrayal, illness, death. How long has it been since she thought back to her innocent childhood with a Muggle toaster and sister who only wanted to be normal.   
  
“I am,” she says, her voice distant with memories of the A23 full of traffic and her mother’s laughter.   
  
“When you did something wrong and you wanted to pin it on her,” he begins in an unusually haggard voice, “what was the first thing you did?”  
  
Lily pulls her hand away from his face and rested it in her lap. In the flicker of the candlelight, Remus’s eyes were locked on her face. She can see that Remus hopes that Sirius will open up to her.  
  
Lily speaks slowly, as if she is still thinking of her answer as she saying it.   
  
“First, I would make a big scene to my Mum about what had happened. I’d cast Petunia into my place of the action,” she says carefully.  
  
Sirius stands so quickly that he must grab the edge of Remus’s desk to ward off dizziness.  
  
“I think so, too,” he says cryptically and exits the room quickly.  
  
Remus’s quill is suspended above his parchment when Lily looks at him. His confusion is a mirror to her own.  
  
 _February 11, 1981_  
  
Sirius, still looking gaunt, tumbles out of the Potter’s fireplace. He saunters into Lily’s kitchen and sits on the counter to watch while Lily boils eggs. He is still fascinated by Muggle cooking and she’s still amused at his open amazement. Lily asks him questions about life and his health, but he’s evasive in his answers.   
  
She’s tetchy from pregnancy and being confined to the same house every day so she snaps at him.  
  
“I do care about you, Black!”   
  
He offers her a strained smile, slides off the counter, and stands at her side before he speaks.  
  
“Of course, Evans.”  
  
She snatches up a dishtowel and wipes angrily at the countertop. With the same anger she asks, “Why are you ill?”  
  
Sirius contemplates the bubbling water inside the pot on the stove and leans in closer to hear the rattle and knock of the eggs.   
  
“I can’t tell you yet.”   
  
She huffs and wipes the countertop harder.  
  
“Have you told Remus yet? He’s more worried than I am,” she says unnecessarily.   
  
Sirius does not look away from the hob.   
  
“I’ll tell you all together. Soon,” he moves to the sink and pours washing up liquid into a slimy fry pan.   
  
“Why do you have to keep all this secret anyway?” Lily asks, with less heat.   
  
“Lily,” Sirius says with a gentle firmness, “do you trust Mad-Eye?”  
  
The change in subject makes Lily stop her furious cleaning. She stares at his tense back.  
  
“Yes. Do you?” she answers slowly.  
  
“More so than others. How about McGonagall? Do you trust her?”  
  
“Of course,” Lily states incredulously, “she was my favorite professor and the Head of our House. Why are you—“  
  
“The Prewett twins? How do you feel about them?” Sirius has abandoned his sponge and is staring at Lily intensely.  
  
“Funny… I mean, I trust them enough to send James along with—“  
  
“Arthur and Molly Weasley?”  
  
“They’re good people; they have kids that are—“  
  
“Evans,” Sirius cuts her off again, dropping the sponge into the sink and walking toward her, “I trust you and your judge of character. Soon, I’m going to need your help with some of that.”  
  
Lily stares at him. His body is tense and his eyes are wide and severe.   
  
“Whom are you trying to feel out—“ she asks tentatively.  
  
“I think Peter is a spy,” Sirius blurts out.  
  
“You ruddy idiot!” Lily turns on him, swinging the dishtowel at his head, “Of course he’s the spy! And you notice he hasn’t been around recently; _His Master_ called him, Black! He had to prove his worth!”  
  
Sirius walks past her with ease and picks up Lily’s cat Polly. He strokes her head methodically before he speaks.  
  
“Evans, I don’t doubt that.”  
  
Lily tenses; she should feel relieved, after all, now they all believe what she and Remus have seen for weeks. Instead, she feels like Sirius is about to let the axe fall.   
  
“However,” Sirius’s voice tingles with worry, “I think he’s a rouse. We’ve been so busy watching each other and having rows about this, that the real spy has been passing more information to Voldemort than ever before.”  
  
Lily stands flabbergasted with her tea towel hanging limply in her hand.   
  
“Who—who do you think it is?” she finds that her voice sounds frightened.  
  
“I have a theory, but I’m not making an accusations until I have more proof. And, to do that, I need you, Prongs, and Moony to find Wormy and… and, do something to keep him out of contact with the Order and Dark Mark. I’m going to… _research_ while you do that.”  
  
 _February 12, 1981_  
  
Remus Lupin and James and Lily Potter break into Peter Pettigrew’s flat at three in the afternoon. Remus disarms the wards and Lily dismisses the alarm charms. James shakes his head at how easily they make their entrance without anyone noticing. It’s as if someone expected them to break in and tried to make their job easier. To all three, it is just another clue that Sirius’s suspicions of another spy are correct.  
  
It smells like dirty socks. There are half-packed bags lining the hallway into the flat. Lily sees the nubs of wax candles, an unopened package of no-flame fire starters, a cork from a bottle of elfin honey mead, a sleeping bag with a broken zipper, half finished sweets, wilted, yellowed roses in a vase with a card addressed to Moony, a dead pixie, and a Hogwarts’s library book on _The Courtier’s Encyclopedia of Courtship and Courtly Love._  
  
They find Peter in his bed, sleeping on his back with his mouth open. He snorts in his sleep and squeezes his eyelids together as if he is blinking in his dreams.   
  
James moves stealthily to the bedside, stepping over a discarded belt and a pair of Muggle snowshoes. He places the tip of his wand in the space of skin between Peter’s eyes and applies a steady pressure.  
  
Peter is awake in a millisecond, gasping an inhale and driving a hand under his pillow.  
  
James hexes still before anyone else can fully react. Then, with deliberate ease, Remus pulls back the duvet to reveal a tattoo of a skull and snake entwining on the skin of Peter’s forearm.   
  
James and Remus dress Peter, bind him, and hide him under the Invisibility Cloak before levitating him into the foyer. While they do this, Lily takes the task of looking around the flat for any evidence of communication. She finds pages of notes scrawled in ancient runes and a photograph of the Marauders hidden in the couch cushions. Under the sink, with a permanent sticking charm adhering them to the underside of the drawers, she finds the address to one of the hostels Sirius stayed in during his brief exile. Stashed in the icebox, under a tray of Mistress Ambrosial’s Inebriating Ice Lollies, she finds a hastily scribbled list of shops that Remus often stopped into. She gathers every piece of parchment she can find and stuffs it all into a rucksack.   
  
The three escort their unseen prisoner out of the flat and into the daylight.   
  
_February 14, 1981_  
  
Lily and James have a quiet dinner in an attempt at Valentine’s Day romance. Neither can seem to relax, however, knowing that they have a prisoner locked in their guest room. Lily goes to bed early. James holds vigil at her bedside with Harry in his arms. He watches his family sleep after double-checking the locks on Peter’s room.  
  
Sirius and Remus sit on opposite ends of the sofa with their feet meeting in a tangled weave at the center. They don’t talk. They don’t listen to the wireless. They don’t read. They just sit and listen to the wind whip down the open floo. Remus wonders if they will have a Valentine’s Day to celebrate ever again.   
_  
February 15, 1981_  
  
Sirius is holding Polly again, her white and orange fur shedding and clinging to his black robes. When Sirius first came into the room, Remus had frozen. Lily looked on, past Remus to Sirius. Somehow, in the space of a few days after his fever broke, Sirius has regained most of his lost weight, but is still not filled out enough to take the sharp contrast of his high cheekbones away. It gives him a haughty look, and, if a married woman may look, an additional degree of sex appeal.   
  
He is standing in the doorway of the spare room; the light from three candles blaze and outline him hauntingly. Lily doesn’t blame Remus for staring; she has to force her eyes to stay on Sirius’s face—or at least torso, when she notes that he is wearing breeches and tall black, leather boots. Part of her wants to cast Sirius as some dark alter ego of Mr. Darcy, a gay alter ego, of course. Then again, the mostly white cat held in Sirius’s arms leads Lily to believe that Remus has let Sirius watch another James Bond picture.   
  
She shakes herself free of the view. Her husband is at her side, his gaze still locked on their prisoner. Peter sits, trembling, on the bed. He’s spent the last couple of days in a compliant, over-potioned haze, neither fighting nor fleeing his high or his captors.   
  
Now, however, it is time to face reality.  
  
Sirius strides into the room, his boots making a steady thump with each footfall. He dumps Polly unceremoniously into a chair and continues toward the bed.  
  
Once he stands directly in front of Peter, he turns to Remus, but is clearly speaking to Peter.  
  
“Moony turns twenty-one soon, old chap. I’m sure that you had some lovely plans for him, right? More wooing, perhaps? Well, I’m sorry to say you’re out of luck. I will, however, let you know how I’m planning to help him celebrate.”  
  
As he says this, he leans down close to Peter’s ear and begins to speak at a much lower volume. James turns away, clearly not wanting to hear, but Lily continues to watch. Remus is holding Sirius’s gaze, his face guarded and cautious, unclear to what Sirius has in mind with this tactic.   
  
“We’re not too formal, us old married types, but occasionally it’s fun to pretend we’re still reveling in romance. I was thinking a heating charmed blanket or two and a bottle of wine under the stars. Of course, I’m out of practice. So since you’re so up to date on this courting stuff, what do you think, Wormtail?”  
  
Peter sits stiffly on the bed, but his hands are visibly shaking.  
  
“Then, we’re going to have a few glasses of wine and we’ll start snogging _and touching._ And pretty soon, Remus will be begging to fuck me into the ground. This part, Wormy, _this part_ I’m an expert at. He’s so sinfully _good_ , Peter. He’s forceful and powerful—“  
  
“Padfoot, enough.” Remus says from Sirius’s left. He shifts his weight uncomfortably.  
  
“—and modest, it seems.” Sirius smirks.  
  
“Sirius, let’s get on with this,” James snaps from the doorway. He is pacing between Lily and the hall, his wand firing off gold and red sparks.   
  
Sirius straightens up and snarls, “Fine.”  
  
Lily and James step closer, both palming their wands. Remus maintains his current position. Peter tenses and then throws himself from the bed onto his knees.  
  
“Please, please,” he begs, sobbing, “I didn’t have a choice. I didn’t have a choice—the Dark Lord, he’s-he’s so p-p-powerful and he was going to kill me—“  
  
The framed pictures on the walls begin to vibrate when Sirius speaks.   
  
“No, Peter, you betraying asshole, _I_ am going to kill you,” Sirius states angrily, “You endangered my family. Damn it, you fool, we loved you! We’d have done anything for you—“  
  
“No, you wouldn’t,” Peter gasps, suddenly more composed, “You wouldn’t have given up Remus.”  
  
“I don’t own Remus,” Sirius growls back, his fingers twitching at his wand, “he isn’t mine to give away.”  
  
Remus steps forward, and his strong hand clasps Sirius’s shoulder. The things on the walls still.  
  
“Was it worth it, Peter?” Remus asks, his voice level.  
  
“He would have… he was going to…” Peter stutters in reply.  
  
“You’re worthless. You could have come to us,” James begins, his voice also even and calm, as he advances on his friend with his wand sparking off like a flare, “and we’d have given our lives to protect you.”  
  
“Who is the other spy, Peter?” Sirius questions, demandingly.  
  
Peter’s head snaps up to meet Sirius’s face. There is surprise written in his eyes. Then the emotion changes, it’s as if Peter has seen a bargaining chip.  
  
“Promise me my life,” he begins, “and I’ll tell you.”  
  
“Sure,” Sirius replies offhandedly, and the other three snap to face him, “who is it?”  
  
“A wizard’s oath! An unbreakable vow!” Peter gasps, grasping for the hope of living.  
  
“James, would you?” Sirius asks, as he raises his hand to clasp Peter’s.  
  
James freezes and turns to Remus; both men are trying to decide what to do.  
  
“J-j-j-james?” Peter stutters, and James lifts his wand to lock in the promise.  
  
Remus removes his hand from Sirius’s shoulder and takes a step backward to allow the oath makers space to work the magic.  
  
“Peter,” Sirius says suddenly, “I want you to know that I’ll do this, but I with this promise, I will destroy your soul. You will remain in limbo between life and death; with no hope of life or any afterlife to speak of.”  
  
Peter opens and closes his mouth; his eyelids flutter in horror.  
  
“That’s dark magic! You-you-you wouldn’t—“  
  
“You forget, _old friend_ , I am the Lord over the Dead; I do have certain gifts, without the nasty strings attached.”  
  
Peter releases Sirius’s hand as if it is on fire. But before any of the rest of them can react, Sirius slides a ring onto his left hand and reaches out and grabs Peter by the neck.  
  
“Shall we see the ninth circle of Hell, Wormtail? A little insight into the eternal home for traitors?”   
  
Peter moans pitifully as Sirius says, “I ask the Dead to come and show _my friend_ his death so that he may see the error of his betrayal.”  
  
Then there is a sharp wind that issues out of Sirius’s left hand. The temperature in the room drops so low that Lily can see James’s breath. In the wind there are hundreds of whispering voices. They circle around Sirius and Peter tightly and obscure them from sight. The swirling accelerates and then before Lily’s eyes Sirius and Peter disappear.


	7. Chapter Seven

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I do love this story, but some of this makes me cringe. Ah perspective.

_February 15, 1981  
_  
On their first night at Hogwarts, when they were eleven and twelve, Peter knew three spells. One would turn on a light, one would summon his mother, and one would enlarge people’s feet. He knew that a twelve-year-old lad had no need to call attention to his need for his Mum or a nightlight spell, but the hex, well, that was something interesting.  
  
Sirius Black was completely outcast by his entire house for days and that was apparent on their first night in the dorm. Peter had hidden on his bed and listened to James and another first-year named Sam chastise the taller boy. Finally, their goading irritated Sirius to the point that he hexed them both silent.  
  
Peter had retaliated and Sirius’s feet had grown larger and larger until Remus had removed all three hexes. Even then when Remus had been exceedingly shy, Peter noted, Remus had stood up for Sirius. Later in life, Sirius had never held those first days against any of his friends.   
  
Tonight, however, Peter feels like he is being repaid for everything he’s ever done to another Marauder—or another human being, for that matter.   
  
His father, a man he’d only known until he was four, appears before him and looks at him in contempt.  
  
“I wanted a son to be proud of,” he said, without emotion, “but I got a worm, instead.” _  
  
_His father reaches out and grabs onto Peter’s shoulder and shoves him forward into a hazy cloud. Peter is terrified. Sirius is standing at his side, seething.  
  
Then his life literally flashes before his eyes. He sees pictures and moments, feels the emotions, and relives his fears. As several of the more important moments are relived, Peter wonders how Sirius will react.   
  
_October 19, 1977_  
  
In their seventh year, Remus tutored a small group of other N.E.W.T. students in Defensive Charms. They met in the library and reviewed bookwork, before moving to Flitwick’s classroom for practice application. Every Wednesday night, Sirius agitatedly glanced at the clock every three minutes or so until nine, when he’d bound out of the Common Room to meet Remus and walk with him back to Gryffindor Tower. Peter watched this each Wednesday, until one night, boredom compelled him to accompany Sirius.   
  
Sirius leaped down the moving stairwells like an over-excited toddler, taking the steps two-at-a-time. Peter laughed and slung himself onto the handrail and slid down the banister. Sirius grinned at Peter’s creativity, but did not join in. In fact, he did not slow his pace until he was on the third floor nearing the Charms classroom.   
  
Inside, melting pillar candles cast long, bluish shadows on the ancient stones. Remus spoke to a longhaired blonde while he stacked yellow and orange feather pillows. The girl clutched a bound book to her chest and giggled at every opportunity.   
  
A _bird_ was _flirting_ with _Remus_. Peter wouldn’t have believed it if he hadn’t been right there. He stood in the doorway and gaped. No girl had ever made a pass at Remus; this was nearly laughable.   
  
Sirius marched over to Remus and grabbed the stack of parchment and books out of his overloaded arms. The girl shifted her eyes and looked at Sirius blankly, but then returned her affectionate gaze to Remus.   
  
Peter glared at her, but his glare was nothing in comparison to Sirius’s. Sirius’s glare could have killed kittens, skinned them, and served them under glass to a Slytherin. The girl, however, did not seem inclined to notice.  
  
The girl stood up straighter, and then turned to say goodnight to Remus. When she did so, she rested her hand on Remus’s elbow and let it linger for a long pause. Remus looked uncomfortable and stepped backward into Sirius’s side. Sirius’s arm lifted as if he was about to drape it over Remus’s shoulder, but then it froze and fell back at his side. The girl took several steps toward the doorway before abruptly returning to Remus.   
  
“Are you going to Hogsmeade this weekend?” she asked with a blush.  
  
Sirius tensed; the muscles in his jaw tightened so fiercely that they quivered. Remus set the last orange pillow on the stack before he straightened to face her.  
  
“I am,” Remus stated assertively.   
  
“Oh,” the girl pouted. “With whom?” she then asked, in a way that made Peter think that she didn’t believe Remus.  
  
Remus ignored her question; instead, he levitated the stack of pillows toward an open wardrobe for storage. While Remus was passive aggressive at times, Sirius was, first and foremost, a man of action. He waited until he caught the girl’s eye and then grabbed Remus and tugged him into a tight embrace. It surprised Remus so much that he lost concentration and the pillows tumbled to the floor.   
  
Sirius brushed his thumb across Remus’s chin and curled his fingers under the sharp jawline. He inclined Remus’s face and then leaned in and captured his lips in a rather thorough kiss. Remus tensed against Sirius, but then relaxed and returned the kiss.  
  
The girl gasped and fled the room but her exit did not mark the termination of their kiss. Peter had seen the two kiss once before, but it was just a chaste peck on the lips. This kiss had Sunday-slow tongue, the kind of kiss that lingered because it could. They finally parted, but remained close to one another even after their lips had separated. Sirius was smug, while Remus looked as if he treasured the ability to simply move a slight inch and recapture Sirius’s mouth.   
  
Peter slipped out before either of them noticed, and none of them mentioned the stolen moment. Even still, for weeks afterward, Peter could not forget the way Remus looked after he had been kissed.   
  
_December 27, 1977_  
  
Peter fell in love with Remus Lupin sometime before Christmas holidays that year. He couldn’t pinpoint the exact date, but somewhere in the moments filled with soft chuckles over mulled cider and chiding smiles in the shadows of pixie lights, Peter came to the conclusion that, yes, Remus was perfect, and yes, he was indeed in love with him.  
  
That holiday Remus, James, and Sirius arrived at the Pettigrew’s home laden with brightly wrapped gifts and warm smiles.  
  
“Happy Christmas!” they chorused as they entered the front hall, draping snow-covered cloaks and scarves onto the pegs behind the door.  
  
“Oh! You lads are getting so tall!” Mary Pettigrew gasped as she stretched up and kissed James’s cheek, and shoved a piece of gingerbread into his hands.  
  
She’d herded them into the front room and they laughed at the irony as Sirius munched on a gingerbread cookie in the shape of a dog bone.   
  
“How was your Christmas, Peter?” Remus asked in his usual graveled, but warm way when he joined Peter on the sofa.  
  
“Oh, oh,” Peter stuttered, suddenly aware of the way he looked and how incoherent he was, “it was g-g-grand. Mum got me a new broomstick.”  
  
Remus smiled, “A Nimbus 1790 or a Cloudsweeper?”  
  
Peter stared at Remus’s mouth because he could not maintain eye contact with his friend without blushing, “Ugh, it’s a… Thunderhead Thirteen-Thousand.”  
  
“ _Which Broomstick_ says they fly like a dream,” Remus replied graciously.  
  
“You-you can have a go. If you’d like—I mean, you don’t have to, but if you want to,” Peter offered disjointedly.  
  
He kicked himself for being so inarticulate, but Remus didn’t seem to notice. He only nodded happily and took another sip of his cider as he watched Sirius and James. James poked at a bauble on the Christmas tree, which took the interference as direction to begin singing carols. The bauble was faded and chipped with time and the singing charm was now permanently sharp, singing like a choir of off-key prepubescent schoolboys. James guffawed and clapped Sirius on the back when Sirius began changing the lyrics into dirty limericks.   
  
“How was your Christmas, Remus?” Peter asked, his voice trembling.  
  
Sirius’s rendition of “What Child is This” now included something about a buggering werewolf. As Sirius’s melodic tenor rose, Sirius caught Remus’s eye and grinned. Remus rolled his eyes as he took another bite of gingerbread. But when Remus faced Peter there was an unusual brightness in his eyes.   
  
“It was wonderful. Thank you for asking, Peter,” he said with sincerity.  
  
Peter felt his face grow hot. What he wouldn’t give to make Remus smile like that.  
  
 _April 13, 1979_  
  
James and Lily wed on a rainy afternoon. Peter and Sirius were ill with Horklump Fever, but regardless, they both performed their groomsmen duties with wide smiles. Despite the very best of intentions, the pull of illness left them both huddled in a bathroom stall sometime after James led Lily to the dance floor.   
  
While the other guests swooned and admired the happy couple, Remus entered the bathroom in search of the Best Man and the other groomsman. He laughed at them and squatted down in front of Peter and ruffled his hair.  
  
“Either of you hallucinating yet?” Remus asked, as he produced vials from inside his robe.  
  
“Yes,” Peter chuckled, “I swear I just saw Prongs get hitched.”  
  
Remus laughed appreciatively and offered Peter his dose of medicine. Peter’s eyes shined when his hand brushed Remus’s fingers. Remus, however, had already moved to push sweaty fringe out of Sirius’s eyes.   
  
“Poor Pureblood,” Remus teased, as he doled out Sirius’s dose, “I think your relations inbred enough to make antibodies a recessive gene.”  
  
Sirius swallowed the vial of potion dutifully. “Yes, go ahead and mock my lack of disease immunity.”  
  
“I’m entitled,” Remus replied, as he stroked Sirius’s hair. “I am the bloke who has been responsible for caring for you.”  
  
“Wormtail,” Sirius croaked, “would you believe that Moony made me _soup_?”   
  
Peter laughed slowly. It was true that Remus had remembered a dose of medicine for Peter as well as Sirius, but it was not administered with the same affection that he offered Sirius. It was that night that Peter realized that the only way Remus would fall in love with him was if Sirius was out of the picture.  
  
 _March 2, 1980_  
  
The Light was losing. There was no question about it in Peter’s mind.   
  
After all, seven days ago he and Sirius had been sent out on a mission that killed both of the other Order members who accompanied them. Once the other two wizards fell dead, Sirius had grabbed Peter and they’d run while cursing the Death Eaters over their shoulders. They sat panting with their backs pressed against a red brick wall in a dodgy alleyway as Death Eaters shot curse after curse at them.   
  
Sirius took a gasping breath before he threw himself around the corner and fired off a series of stunners. He had fallen back around the corner before he grabbed Peter by the shoulder and forced him further down the alley. They ran and ran and ran.  
  
If Peter was honest with himself, before that night and that mission, this so-called war had been some sort of challenge. It was more like a difficult prank that needed the kinks worked out of it than a life-or-death sort of thing. Sure he’d been in battles before. He’d even seen people die before. However, it wasn’t until that night that he considered how badly things were looking for the Light.  
  
Their numbers were dwindling; it was almost as if someone was telling the Death Eaters where the Order members were being sent for missions. Peter had done some quick calculations and discovered that his chances of surviving the war were slim. Therefore, he took drastic measures. He did not want to die.  
  
The newly burned mark on his left arm itched. But he didn’t rub at it when he arrived to see Remus. Once he’d made his decisions and insured that he would survive, he set out to take care of some other unfinished business.   
  
Before this Remus and Sirius had shared a flat in London, but since Remus’s mother’s death they had decided to relocate to Remus’s grandparents' home. Peter thought it was strange that Remus and Sirius would want to live in a dead woman’s house.  
  
He stepped out of the floo and dodged his way around the walls of boxes.  
  
“Hullo, Wormtail!” Remus called from his perch atop a box marked “bathroom, you git”.  
  
Peter loosened his scarf, “Hi, Remus. Are you here alone?”  
  
Remus made a dismissive gesture with his hand, “Sirius will do anything to get out of unpacking this mess; he’s off saving the world from Death Eaters.”  
  
Peter smiled and looked around the room. “Pretty big place.”  
  
Remus shrugged and gestured at a box for Peter to sit on. “My grandfather designed it and built it from hand, the Muggle way. I couldn’t part with it. Plus, my Mum wanted Sirius and I to move in sometime after seventh year, but we wanted to live on our own for a while. We figured that… we could honor her wishes…”  
  
Remus’s sentence trailed off and he studied the box he was sitting on intensely. Peter didn’t fail to notice the alarming wetness in Remus’s eyes. Peter nodded and adjusted himself on his box. He was always good at sudden subject changes.  
  
He blurted out, “Would you like your birthday present early?”  
  
Remus, composure regained, grinned wolfishly. “Alright, Wormtail, sure.”  
  
Peter’s hands trembled when he leaned toward Remus’s box and took Remus’s face in his hands. He saw Remus’s expression darken, but Peter didn’t wait as he leaned in and kissed Remus’s mouth.  
  
In Peter’s plan, Remus would relent and open his mouth to Peter’s kiss. In Peter’s plan, Remus would stutter and blush and touch his fingers to his lips in surprise. In Peter’s plan, Remus would end things with Sirius and he and Peter would move to Dover and watch the sunrise.  
  
Nowhere in Peter’s plan did Remus shove him backward and jump to his feet.   
  
“What the _fuck_ , Peter?” Remus raged, as he stumbled over a half-empty box.  
  
Peter sputtered, “I’m—I’m sorry, Remus! I’m sorry! I thought—“  
  
Remus gained solid footing and rounded on Peter, “You thought _what_? You’d give the ‘snogging a bloke’ thing a go? Just figured I’d stand for it?”  
  
“No! No! It’s-it’s not, not, not like that!” Peter sputtered.  
  
“Right,” Remus growled, straightening to his full height, “What’s it like then?”  
  
Peter stumbled over his words, trying out “survival” and “love” but Remus heard none of them.  
  
“Taking advantage of our friendship,” Remus muttered, along with several other things, as he glowered at his friend, but Peter didn’t hear the words. He did, however, catch the meaning of “Get the hell out!” as Remus threw open the front door. As Peter left, he felt Remus cast strong wards across the door.  
  
That night, Peter waited for Sirius’s impending attack. He expected Sirius to fly out of his floo in a rage and for Sirius’s fists to pound into his skull. But it didn’t happen. He waited until the next day. He waited for days after that. The pounding never occurred.   
  
Apparently, Remus never told Sirius about the kiss.  
  
 _February 16, 1981_  
  
Six hours ago, Sirius grabbed Peter by the throat and disappeared with an allusion to Dante.  
  
Sooner or later, they’ll return, Remus thinks. Anticipating this, the remaining three set the watch. Lily sat up first, waiting beside an empty bed. She woke Remus half an hour ago for his shift. He rests in the doorway of the Potter’s spare room. His back is braced on the door’s frame and his knees are folded to his chest. The house is dark and quiet, but the hour smells late. Even as such, Remus doesn’t feel exceptionally tired. Dropping his head against the doorframe, he closes his eyes and lets his mind wander. It doesn’t take long before it settles into his least favorite, but most worried topic: war.  
  
When his father was killed in a Death Eater raid on the Ministry of Magic, Remus swore he would fight the good fight and avenge his father. Those were the simple, heroic dreams of a fifth year Gryffindor student. By seventh year, Remus had come to the conclusion that those dreams were practically pointless; the world was fully at war and in desperate need of cannon fodder. With such factors, there was no chance that he could escape his future as a solider.   
  
That prediction came to fruition the Christmas after graduation. His mother Caroline had come to London to see the flat the boys had let. She stayed in their guest room on a bed transfigured from a throw pillow and proclaimed their ability to singe eggs miraculous. She taught Sirius how to make fudge and embarrassed Remus with photographs and stories from his childhood. Sirius drug her out to try an espresso from a tiny café, or to see the Christmas decorations at Buckingham Palace with an exuberance that ushered in the Christmas spirit. Remus had trotted along behind them with a bemused air, secretly pleased that the two got on as well as they did. Then, the Muggleborn witch that she was, Caroline accidentally mentioned the Imperial War Museum’s exhibit on Muggle spy technology.  
  
Sirius’s obsession with Muggle mechanics known and his interest captured, the three trudged through the sharp, cold winds to the long stone building. Remus simply laughed as Sirius received no less than three reprimands for attempting to disassemble World War Two aeroplanes. Caroline had watched Remus with jovial eyes.  
  
“You love him,” she stated, as if listing off some population statistic.   
  
Remus had directed his mother’s attention to the dark headed man poking at a cannon’s tire. “How could I not?” he replied cheekily.  
  
She did not say anything else about the subject until they were entering the Tube station later that afternoon.   
  
“Sirius,” she called, pulling on the end of his loose scarf, “my son loves you.”  
  
Caroline’s face had betrayed no emotion, but her eyes, like Remus’s, could not lie. They demanded that Sirius know the intensity of such a statement. Sirius did not disappoint.  
  
“My dear woman, I thought this was apparent. He just suffered through five hours of me questioning anyone in the bloody museum about sub-mer-eenes.”  
  
“Oh yes,” Remus had jested with mock severity, “the history of marine warfare: the test of true love.”  
  
“No, Moony, that’s two hours in the British Library while you inspect a printing press from every angle or ages in the British Museum while you look at the Elgin Marbles and you won’t let me make a bloody joke about the blokes missing their bits and bobs,” Sirius retorted, as he led the way down a white-tiled hallway.   
  
“I love the Elgin Marbles,” Caroline replied quietly, while she smiled into her coat collar.  
  
“So does Remus,” Sirius replied and glanced over his shoulder, “but I love him anyway.”  
  
Remus launched into a mini-lecture about how the Muggles misinterpret the marble slabs to be a mythical battle with the Centaurs, instead of the battle against the Dark Wizard Ubal in 1117 (which united both wizard and Centaur). Sirius rolled his eyes, but ghosted his hand across the small of Remus’s back. Caroline’s small smile was disrupted when the Muggles waiting for their trains began running the wrong way up the hallway.  
  
“Terrorists!” someone yelled.  
  
Sirius had his wand out and was forcing his way through the frenzied crowd like a salmon rushing upstream. The Death Eaters advancing on them were not firing off hexes and leaving their prey for dead. Instead, they were torturing their victims by levitating their bodies over the electrical Tube tracks and dropping them, or slicing into their skin with broad cuts of magic.   
  
Caroline and Remus both claimed their wands and joined Sirius as he led their charge against the Death Eaters. Another wizard, about thirty or so, also rushed forward with his wand raised.   
  
In the end, Remus thinks, it was a horrible Christmas. That wizard, whose identity Remus never learned, was killed in a duel. Caroline died hours later in St. Mungo’s from her injuries. Sirius had clutched her hand and sworn to love Remus as best as he could. Remus had wept.   
  
At Caroline’s graveside, Peter, Lily, and James placed flowers. Sirius, however, adorned her tombstone with a plastic submarine. Remus laughed bitterly but had clung to Sirius desperately. Later, Remus inherited his childhood home in Banbury. To Remus, however, it was only home because Sirius was in it with him.   
  
But the war wasn’t finished ravaging Remus’s life. It had taken his parents entirely. Now, it begins to dig its claws into Sirius with its prophesy of death: Voldemort or Black. There are marks on James, Lily, and Remus too—the scars of soldiers, of course. Remus tightens his hands into fists.   
  
It's as if the war hasn't claimed enough already. It isn't content with their youth, their innocence, their unmarred bodies; no, the war wants all of them. It will stop at nothing until it has taken their health, their trust, their relationships, their companions, their families, and their last breath as well.  
  
Remus lets out a long-held breath. He forces all the air out of his lungs as if driving out every molecule will remove the fingerprints of death and conflict from his body. He is not a pessimistic man by nature; he’s more of a survivor. Much like the wolf with whom he shares his bones and blood, he would gnaw off a limb in order to escape a bear trap and to return to his pack. Remus rubs at his face angrily. The nature of his thoughts tonight seem to bring him to the conclusion that, inevitably, Sirius will die.  
  
That Voldemort will win.   
  
But he doesn’t believe this! If he really believed that he would gather his pack and flee. Yes, he thinks, I lost my parents and so did Lily and so did James (and, thereby, Sirius), but that means nothing. The Light will triumph, surely. Good over evil and all that.  
  
Remus gives another forceful rub to his face. Death should relinquish its claim on Sirius; it has already claimed him as Lord over its wards, and that should be enough.   
  
Sirius should live.   
  
Sirius should live to teach Neville and Harry about submarines and gravity defying charms and self-freezing water balloons and the Standard Laws of Invisibility. He should live to put his cold feet on the back of Remus’s calves and to seep Remus’s tea for too long. He should live to play “Happy Birthday” on his violin to his godchildren and to tease James about his graying hair and to fill in with the crossword in disappearing ink to annoy Lily and to write that non-bigoted textbook on werewolves like he’d planned.  
  
Remus’s chest tightens as his heart directs scenarios of things that should happen for years and years. Ever the while, his mind, the logical trap that it is, constantly nags with the words of the prophesy: “One must take the other’s life, for neither can exist whilst the other endures.” That same course of logic reminds him of a fifty or so percent chance that Voldemort will endure and that Remus will have to dictate another adage for a tombstone.  
  
He is nearly twenty-one years old and he is nearly crying. He scrubs at his face again, warding off the impending tears. He will not bury his love; he refuses. This isn’t the future they envisioned, of course, no one would wish they sort of an existence upon themselves. Remus forces himself to take another deep, cleansing breath. Suddenly, as if interrupting his attempts to regain control of his wayward thoughts, there is a prickling sensation on his arms.  
  
There is a sharp snap, like someone has flung a folded tablecloth open, and then a forceful gust of bone-chilling wind of whispering voices. Remus leaps to his feet as the noise swirls around and around and reforms into Peter and Sirius. Sirius releases his grip on Peter’s shoulder and Peter collapses to the floor dry heaving and sobbing hysterically. Remus spring forward and grabs Sirius in a tight embrace. Sirius is trembling uncontrollably and falls into Remus’s embrace.   
  
“Water?” Sirius grits out, latching his fingers on Remus’s arm.  
  
Remus conjures a mug and fills it with cool, clean water from his wand. Sirius tries to grip the offered vessel, but he refuses to relinquish his hold on Remus. Remus finally settles for lifting the mug to Sirius’s lips. As the water slips pass Sirius’s lips and drips down his chin, Remus is reminded of the innumerable mornings after romping under the full moon when Sirius has expertly cared for him. Sirius chokes on the water and Remus fumbles with pulling the mug away at the same time as Sirius tries to stretch forward for more liquid.  
  
There are footsteps in the hallway, and Remus sees James enter the guest room with his wand raised. He spares a long look at Remus caring for Sirius before training his wand on Peter. Peter claws at the carpet under his hands and begs like a child awaking from a nightmare.  
  
“James… James, old friend,” he chokes. His voice is dry and heavy, as if laden with bags of sand. “Water, please, I need water.”  
  
James glares at Peter before turning his gaze back to Sirius who is drinking desperately. James leans over and a stream of water pours from his wand. Peter rolls onto his side and opens his mouth, letting the liquid pour into his mouth. He coughs and sputters when he’s swallowed it too quickly, but he doesn’t pause.   
  
“Where did you take him, Sirius?” Lily asks from the doorway. She’s pulling a knit blanket around her shoulders like a shawl to ward off the chill of the house in the nighttime.   
  
Sirius tries to take a drink from the now empty mug. When he realizes he must wait for Remus to refill it, he addresses her.  
  
“The Dead took him and showed him his life and his… deaths,” he offers before greedily drinking again.  
  
“The Dead?” Lily asks, but her question goes unanswered.  
  
“What did you see, you rat?” James questions with a growl.  
  
Peter whimpers but just continues to cough on the water.  
  
“Chokes. He chokes,” Sirius says as he gasps for air, “We only saw two options before he freaked.”  
  
Remus pulls the mug away from Sirius’s lips, but Sirius attempts to follow its path.  
  
“He chokes?” Remus asks, while holding the mug far from Sirius’s reach.  
  
Sirius looks irritated, but understands that he must answer the question before being offered his reward.  
  
“The Dead only offer as much as you can handle. We only saw two scenarios; Voldemort chokes him in both options.”  
  
Peter wails at the mention of Voldemort and his visions.   
  
“Well, Peter,” Lily says in a condescending tone, “you should be pleased that your Lord is so gracious. In comparison to the ways I was planning on killing you, choking seems to be such a less violent way to go.”  
  
Remus takes a moment to consider the woman beside him. She is in a cotton nightgown and is barefoot. Her hair is curling with the angles that she slept. She seems to be the quintessential mother. As such, her chilling words seem out of place.   
  
James, having decided that Peter’s thirst is sated, stands and rolls his wand between his fingers and his thumb. Peter curls in on himself and jams his fist into his mouth to smoother his sobs. His face contorts into a catatonic gaze and he no longer registers the activities of the persons around him. Lily stares down at him coldly. Without adjusting her gaze, she addresses the room.  
  
“Sirius, I realize that you’ve just messed with some extreme magic,” she orders briskly, “but it’s time for you to start talking.”  
  
James glances down at Peter, who remains catatonic.  
  
“We’ll leave you here then, rat,” he snarls.  
  
Lily makes as if she is about to ward the room, but James brushes her off.   
  
“No need,” he says, as he pulls the bedroom door shut behind their small group, “he’s scared out of his mind.”  
  
Remus helps Sirius into the bathroom and waves the Potters off. Sirius settles onto the toilet lid and drops his head into his hands.   
  
“He kissed you,” Sirius states, drained.  
  
“What?” Remus asks, startled, as he wets a flannel under the tap.  
  
“Wormtail… he kissed you. He’s been in love with you for years,” Sirius says as he looks up at Remus.  
  
“Yes,” Remus replies slowly, while wiping at Sirius’s forehead with the wet flannel, “I think I’d forgotten that.”  
  
“Forgotten?” Sirius asks, while ducking the flannel, “How did you forget that? And forget to mention it to me?”  
  
Remus presses to flannel to the back of Sirius’s neck and he sinks to his knees before Sirius. Sirius adjusts his legs so that Remus is in between his knees.  
  
“I don’t know,” Remus begins, “I’m sorry.”  
  
Sirius drops his head forward, resting his forehead on Remus’s shoulder. He’s simply too tired to argue or even be angry. Remus continues to brush Sirius’s hair away as he dabs the flannel at Sirius’s neck.   
  
“I didn’t think it meant anything, Padfoot. I thought he was taking this piss out on me—then I thought he was trying it out on someone safe,” Remus explains, as he tosses the used flannel into the sink.  
  
“I have a lot to tell you,” Sirius says into Remus’s shoulder.  
  
“You owe all of us a lot of explanation,” Remus replies, stroking Sirius’s back.  
  
“Should get started then,” Sirius says, but he does not rise for several minutes.  
  
When they do join the other two downstairs, Sirius commands the conversation, pausing only long enough to sip water, answer questions, and clarify his examples. By the time he is finished, his throat is sore and dawn is brightening the sky with dulled purples.   
  
Remus has seen Sirius shaken before, but there is a sort of pitiful loss in his eyes when he tells of seeing the people he loves killed. Remus, who has never been one for public displays of affection, even around their friends, grabs Sirius’s hand. Sirius clutches it tightly. He finds that his own hold is just as tight as he imagines the man he loves in these scenarios.  
  
After Sirius has talked for hours and all four feel exhausted, James distributes ceramic mugs of black coffee. Remus takes his mug and cherishes the bitter burn it leaves on his tongue. The mental images of Sirius without his lower body replay themselves and he finds that his hands are shaking. He sets his cup down onto the table.  
  
Sirius clears his throat and stretches his legs. His eyes are drooping with sleep, but it isn’t time to rest just yet.  
  
“So,” James prompts, as he slides a mug to Sirius, “who is the traitor?”  
  
Sirius stares into the abyss of his coffee before speaking.  
  
“I don’t have much to go on yet. I have coincidences and… a hunch.”  
  
The other three still and watch him, waiting for the big reveal.  
  
“Who had access to all of the files that we ever created for the Order?” Sirius asks rhetorically. “And who had the Resurrection Stone ring? And who has the power to send us to our deaths without anyone ever questioning his motivation?”  
  
Lily sits up straighter in her chair. “Sirius,” she begins slowly, a hint of warning in her tone, “if you make this accusation—“  
  
“Exactly, Evans. Why do you think I’ve waited so long to do so?” he snaps in reply.  
  
James bounces his knee to ward off the tension in his limbs. “What will this mean?”  
  
A wail issues from the nursery. All four adults look to one another. Remus pushes back his chair and exits the room. He knows the conversation in the kitchen will halt until he returns. He walks into the pale blue nursery and spies Neville standing in his cot, screaming for attention.  
  
“Good morning, son,” Remus coos, as he scoops up the child.   
  
Neville wipes his nose on Remus’s shoulder and fists his robe tightly before renewing his screaming.  
  
“Alright, alright, I’m here,” Remus asserts, while bouncing the child on his hip.  
  
“Moo! Moo!” Neville cries, tugging on Remus’s robe.  
  
“Yes, Moony is here. What do you need, Nev? Would you like breakfast?”  
  
“Moo! Moo!” Neville cries again, before his tone turns desperate, “Harr!”  
  
Remus turns a circle to the other cot, expecting a pair of shocking green eyes to be peering out at him. Harry’s cot, however, is empty.  
  
Remus’s blood freezes in his veins.  
  
It is entirely possible that the son of James and Lily Potter, two highly powerful magic users, could have turned himself invisible or could have apparated himself to Belgium. These things happen with magical children. Remus forces himself to be reasonable.  
  
“Neville,” he begins slowly, “Where is Harry?”  
  
“Not-Moo! Not-Moo!”  
  
Remus forces himself not to get frustrated. After all, Neville has not quite managed names beyond “Moo” and “Paft,” so everyone else seems to fall into the “Not-Moo” category. While Sirius has insisted that he drill the child on everyone’s names at every chance, Remus has left the “Not-Moo” unchallenged.  
  
“It’s very Aristotelian,” he’d said, “we know who I am because we know that I am not you, and we know you are you because you’re not me. The child is going to be brilliant,” Remus had offered with a smirk one morning.   
  
Sirius had rolled his eyes and replied, “Aristotle also said that I could prove that pigs can fly if I offer a correctly phrased syllogism.”  
  
“Seeing as you levitated most every barn animal ever created, I’d say that your correctly phrased syllogism is valid,” Remus had retorted with a grin.  
  
Now, however, this habit will not be useful.   
  
“Padfoot took Harry?” he asks helpfully.  
  
Neville’s face reddens with irritation. “NOT-Moo!”   
  
“Neville, I’m Moo. Do you mean Padfoot?”  
  
“NO. Not-Moo!”   
  
Frustrated, Remus shuffles Neville to one of his hips and he hurries from the nursery. As he passes the Potter’s guest room, he notices that the door is ajar, just wide enough for a rat to squeeze through. Remus’s heart rate accelerates. He pushes the door open to reveal an empty room.  
  
“SIRIUS! JAMES!” he yells as he runs down the hallway into the kitchen.  
  
“Peter! Peter!” he pants, “Peter has Harry!”


	8. Chapter Eight

_February 16, 1981_  
  
The trees whiz past at fifty or sixty miles per hour; Remus maneuvers the broom around their trunks without ever looking away from his search of the ground. They’re flying three abreast, with Lily hanging on behind James on his broom. She has never felt competent on a broom, something about a house holding cleaning object as transportation keeps her feet planted on terra firma, but this arrangement works.   
  
Remus glances to his left where the Potters are swooping and darting between branches with the precision of one of Gryffindor’s finest chasers. Sirius is on his left somewhere, clutching Neville to his chest protectively.   
  
“We should take him somewhere—to the Weasley’s,” Remus had suggested, as he grabbed a racing broom and moved to the front door. “Peter has Harry; we’re all going to need to be ready to disarm him.”  
  
Sirius had prepared to set Neville down on the couch to make a floo call when Neville whined “Padft” and he had grabbed handfuls of Sirius’s robes.  
  
Sirius’s entire face had altered into some comical combination of surprise and adoration.  
  
“Moony, Peter has no wand and is no match for any of us in a duel,” Sirius had said hurriedly as he scooped Neville back up off the sofa.  
  
Sirius would not be dissuaded. Remus was grateful that Neville was not a daughter. He could only imagine how tightly Sirius would be tied to that girl’s little finger. As it were, Remus had no doubt that most of Alphard Black’s fortune would be spent spoiling their son rotten.   
  
“I was a bloody Beater for five straight years,” Sirius had reminded his lover, as he tucked their son under his cloak, “I can fly with one hand.”  
  
The conversation only takes moments, the span of just enough time for Lily to adjust the wards to lock Peter out. Then they had mounted brooms and begun a desperate line search.  
  
“He can’t transform and carry Harry,” James had assessed, while directing their flight.  
  
Sirius had caught Remus’s eye; both of them had reached the same heart-stopping conclusion: Peter would transform if he’d killed Harry already. It concerned Remus immensely that he had already assumed Peter was capable and willing to murder a baby. This realization only spurned Remus to fly faster.  
  
So far, their search has been cold and fruitless. No one was sure how long ago Peter had disappeared with Harry, so there was no way to gauge how far Peter had run. Thankfully, there was only one logical direction for the man to flee toward: when the Potters and Sirius set the Fidelius Charm, they also placed an Anti-Apparation Jinx over all the surrounding areas. As well as the main level of the house, one could only come and go from a spot east, well beyond the house’s protect charms.  
  
“The wards were still keyed to him,” Remus hears Lily say to James, “he could have Disapparated from inside the house and we just didn’t hear him—“  
  
Remus shakes his head and James speaks what Remus is thinking, “Peter couldn’t Apparate silently to save his life.”  
  
Lily doesn’t seem convinced. She says something further, but Remus has to swerve away to avoid a tight collection of trees. He ducks a branch, but not quickly enough. It slashes across his face and slices into his cheekbone. The exposed cut pulses in the morning air. Maybe it’s this quick pain that brings Sun Tzu to mind, but he begins to think of _The Art of War_ as he cuts through the dawn.  
  
Remus remembers one of the most poignant statements, short and sweet, like a Muggle bumper sticker: “All warfare is based on deception.” He nods to himself. It fits Peter the Death Eater so well. Pretend to be their friend, pretend to love them and then expose them to be cut down at their weakest point.   
  
Remus chances a glance to his right just as Sirius dives through a dense copse of pines. Their weakest point is what, or rather whom, they love. Their tiny family would do anything for those they love. Remus spares a moment of thought to why Peter—whom they loved like a brother—would give up their family. Remus glances across the ground, still seeing nothing by fog and early morning shadows.   
  
He finally forces himself to come to the conclusion that Peter, his brother, is dead to him. The realization hurts. In addition, it only confuses Remus more. Is Sirius is correct and Peter really, truly loves him then why would Peter want to hurt him. It seems far more plausible that Peter’s affection is only a ploy to sway Remus to Voldemort’s side. Remus squints into the morning’s gloom and tries to make sense of the situation.  
  
It is then that Remus has a moment of clarity. Sun Tzu echoes in his mind.  
  
“Attack him where he is unprepared, appear where you are not expected.”  
  
Remus grips his broom handle tighter. This quote seems to spiral out of control and his brain jumps to another text by the same name, this book written by Niccolo Machiavelli.  
  
“To know in war how to recognize an opportunity and seize it is better than anything else.”  
  
He feels the tingle of magic shoot through his skin and burrow into his bones. They have crossed the edge of the Potter property and out of the protection of the Fidelius Charm. The sun is casting pink and orange ribbons into the clouds and making the eerie morning fog into a blue-gray haze. Just as one of those bright ribbons of light bursts through the fog, Remus realizes the correlation between his situation and those quotes from the two texts of _The Art of War_.  
  
The words _deception_ and _unexpected attacks_ and _opportunities_ all blend together in his mind and he opens his mouth to shout out to his friends “Trap!” or “Ambush!” or “Peter—that rat—has outsmarted all of us!,” but it’s too late. Killing curses and stunners are slicing through the misty morning air with frightening accuracy.  
  
Remus drops his broom in altitude and swings wide to avoid a gnarled tree and a particularly well-aimed curse.   
  
“Moony!” Sirius yells from his left, and Remus snaps his head up to face his lover.  
  
Sirius matches Remus’s speed and level so that their brooms are balanced side-by-side. Without a word, Sirius swings his leg over both brooms simultaneously and settles in front of Remus.   
  
“I can’t hold Nev and the broom and return fire,” he explains quickly, grasping both broom handles in one fist.   
  
Remus only nods and readies his wand to defend his family. To his side he sees Lily climbing around James to sit backward in his lap and fire over his shoulder. The arrangement seems to work, but Remus has no time for her cat-like grace. He simply turns over his own shoulder and launches a volley of spells at the Death Eaters.  
  
The numbers are technically even, five-to-five, but Remus doesn’t think that is really very fair, considering that Neville cannot even stand up on his own, let alone be fitted for a wand. The Death Eaters don’t seem to care either way. They close in around the back of Remus and Sirius’s duel brooms. One of the Death Eaters shoots a spell and hits the twigs of the left broom. The twigs begin to smoke and then the magic in the levitation charms fail. Sirius snaps around to examine the broom.  
  
“Our left engine is out, sir!” he jests, and lets go of that broom’s handle.  
  
Remus doesn’t rise to the joke; just lets the broom fall away from his legs and plummet toward the earth. He leans closer to Sirius and clutches his hip with one hand while turning at the middle to stun one of the wizards tailing them. He can feel Sirius adjust Neville against his chest. This only spurns Remus’s desire to protect them more.  
  
Lily lets out a vicious yell and Remus sees that one of the larger masked villains falls gracelessly from the sky. James offers a tight smile as the man drops like a stone to the ground. In the same moment, Sirius gasps and Remus whirls around. There, below them, he spots Peter over Sirius’s right shoulder. This is obviously the reason for Sirius’s reaction, as he lowers the broom into a nosedive immediately.   
  
The Death Eaters follow, but Remus conjures a strong updraft and their brooms lurch upward and away from Sirius, Neville, and he. James has seen Peter as well and the Potters are like hawks swooping in on their prey of field mouse. Peter yelps and transforms, successfully dropping Harry onto the pine needles that coat the forest floor. Harry screams from his rough treatment.  
  
Lily cries out, but redirects her attention to the impending foe. James leans over his broom and they lower again, until they are barely a foot off the ground. They are so close to the earth that they must reposition themselves to keep the broom balanced. Lily throws her legs up over James’s hips as he leans lower and lower on the broom with his cheekbone resting on her hip. His right arm snaps out and he snatches his son up off the ground with far more care than he’d ever shown a Quaffle. He transfers his son into Lily’s grasp and she lovingly kisses the boy in her arms.  
  
Remus returns his attention to the four still on their brooms as he hears James stun Peter. Sirius banks sharply and they are speeding back toward the safe, secret boundary of the Potter’s land. James, with his passengers, are just a hair in front and Sirius falls in line behind him. When his trouser leg snags on a low-growing shrubbery, Remus begins to suggest that they elevate their position. He is cut short however, when the huge, boulder-like Death Eater, whom Lily grounded, leaps to his feet and grabs onto the handle of their broom.   
  
Sirius growls and Remus lowers his wand to the man’s forehead and whispers a spell. It fires out of his wand a bright, glowing orange and impacts with the man’s skull perfectly, but the Death Eater does not react. Sirius’s shoulders tense, and Remus panics.  
  
During his years at Hogwarts, Remus suffered through bigoted professors and biased textbooks spewing lies about lycanthropy. In their fourth year, their Defense professor told the class that werewolves could survive Unforgivable curses. He went on to suggest that James Potter, if he knew any werewolves, could experiment with the curses and write up his findings for extra credit. Peter, who was hurting for passing grades in the class, was all for the idea, but Sirius had told his dorm mates, in no uncertain terms, that if anyone tried to curse Moony, Sirius would willingly spend the rest of his life in Azkaban repaying the action. James had rolled his eyes and suggested that if any of them were going to Azkaban for murder it would be all four Marauders after they AK-ed a particularly prejudiced DADA professor.  
  
By the time they had graduated, the Marauders had established that there was only one curse, jinx, or hex that werewolves were actually immune to: the muscle-spasm jinx. James was sure it had something to do with the fact that lycanthropes had to suffer complete lost of motor functions during transformations and this was the universes’ way of balancing things out.  
  
Either way, Remus felt the hair on his arm prickle in recognition of what this man was. Remus’s perfectly cast muscle-spasm jinx failed on this huge buffoon. And the broom—unable to hold three grown men and a half-pint of a child—was bristling and creaking under the speed and the weight.   
  
Now, Sirius kicks at the man, nesting the heel of his boot into the man’s groin. He grunts and relinquishes his hold on the handle.  
  
“Up, up! Up, now!” Sirius urges the broom while yanking on the handle.  
  
Remus latches onto Sirius’s waist while firing a leg-locking jinx at the Death Eater. The broom groans and whines as they gain altitude. Sirius begins to coo to it.  
  
“C’mon, baby. That’s right—just take us on home, baby. You can do it.”  
  
Remus reaches around Sirius’s side and braces Neville’s head in his palm. He balances the child on his forearm and quickly pulls him from beneath Sirius’s cloak and into his own chest.  
  
“How now, son?” Remus asks gently, cradling the boy against his jumper. “Look at the sunrise, Nev.”  
  
The baby grumbles and rubs his nose across Remus’s chest as if to stifle his own cry.  
  
“Ready for breakfast?” Remus asks, leaning in closer to Sirius to protect the child from the wind.  
  
“C’mon, now,” Sirius suddenly commands the broom irritated, “don’t give up on me now.”  
  
The broom sputters. Remus feels the air swishing past his cheek decrease in speed and in a moment’s time, he feels gravity beginning to assert her control over the broom and its passengers. Remus sees the small clearing below them and tightens his grip on Neville and Sirius’s waist.  
  
Sirius quickly casts a levitation charm on the broom and eases their descent to the ground. They are nearing the earth when the pursuing Death Eaters enter the clearing. Remus releases his hold on Sirius and grabs his wand again, deflecting charms and hexes.   
  
A curse breaks through Remus’s shields and Sirius is thrown from the broom. Simultaneously, he loses control of the levitated broom and Remus and Neville and yanked toward the ground. They fall for a few meters, but Remus lands on his feet and roll off to the side without injuring himself. He shuffles under some thick brush and imagines himself relatively safe from discovery. He casts a worried glance in the direction that Sirius has fallen. His safety and concerned are interrupted when Neville begins to wail.  
  
The Death Eaters hone in on the noise like sharks to blood. Sirius, however, clamors from his fallen position and attacks the four on brooms with an enthusiasm akin to William Wallace. Remus pauses, entertaining the idea of casting a silencing charm on his son and resting him in the safety of the shrubbery. At that exact moment, the brutishly large werewolf bursts out of the grove of trees and rushes at Remus.   
  
Remus snaps his cloak back over the boy and leaps to his feet to meet his foe in a duel. It is then that he notices that the man charging him is unarmed. He pauses for only a heartbeat before throwing out his wand and stunning the man. He ducks to the left, however, and the spell hits the oak behind him, freezing it from even the wind.  
  
Remus redraws his wand elegantly into his chest, but the werewolf before him is airborne. It takes Remus a moment to collect himself and realize the man is leaping into the air and--- he collides with Remus and sends him sprawling backward into the weeds. Remus scrambles to his knees and adjusts his hold on his screaming son. Neville bangs a chubby fist on his father’s collarbone, but Remus has no time to deal with the child. He fires a blast that sends the werewolf backward several steps. He stumbles on a log and falls on his side while holding the boy in the safety of his cloak.   
  
Remus leaps to his feet and begins to run to Sirius’s side in preparation to regroup. Where were James and Lily? Did they simply get _their son_ and run to safety? Remus chances a glance over his shoulder to see the huge man lumbering back to his feet. His mask has fallen away and his fall has ripped the too-tight Death Eater robes at the hem on his shoulder.  
  
His face is scarred and covered in unkempt gray whiskers. Remus freezes.  
  
Fenrir Greyback. The man who bit him as a child. Remus can feel his pulse accelerating in anger.   
  
This is the idiot is the reason Remus is ostracized by most of society, why he will never be allowed to marry, to _legally_ adopt a child, to own property, or to vote for his local council. Remus can feel his grip tighten on both Neville and his wand.   
  
Remus is not a bloodthirsty man; he does not dream of revenge. All the same, for years, Remus has dreamed of meeting Greyback and ending his life in return for damaging his own. Greyback offers a toothy grin. Remus does not fail to notice the sharp canine teeth glinting yellow in the early morning light.  
  
“Oh, _Lupin,_ I hardly recognized you after all these years,” Greyback rasps.  
  
Remus does not verbally respond, but fires a spell that quickly covers the other werewolf in a plague of oozing boils. Greyback growls a curse and leaps at Remus again. The younger man is prepared, however, and responds in turn by repelling his jump. Greyback falls backward with a thud. Remus prepares another spell, but a second Death Eater, this one still righted on his broom, descends on their duel.  
  
With one quick and precise stunning spell, the Death Eater and his broom fall face-first into the cold dirt. Remus offers himself no congratulations as he binds the foe and turns back to Greyback.  
  
Who is gone.  
  
Remus pauses and turns a slow circle around his position. No angle changes the reality; Greyback is gone.   
  
Cursing his luck, Remus jogs toward Sirius who is dueling two remaining Death Eaters alone. Remus jumps over the third, who is lying bound and gagged on the ground. Sirius sees Remus and, without ignoring his duels, begins walking to meet Remus. At that precise moment, Greyback reenters the fray.  
  
He pounces from unseen location and pins Remus by the shoulders to a tree trunk. He pulls Remus forward and then slams his torso into the tree trunk. Remus’s head rebounds on the bark and Greyback repeats the motion.  
  
Remus’s sight begins to swim. His face feels hot and his vision clouds with pinpoint spots on the outside of his vision. There is a dull ringing in his ears and his legs feel heavy. Neville’s screams seem distant and muddled.  
  
And then Remus feels Neville pulled from his grasp.  
  
He shakes himself and tries to remain standing, but his head lulls forward and his knees buckle. Remus blinks repeatedly in an attempt to clear his vision, but to no avail. Somewhere fall off her hears Sirius calling to him and then, cruelly, he hears Greyback whispering to him.  
  
“I do love kids, you know,” he rumbles, so close that Remus can feel rank air on his heated cheek, “such sweet blood.”  
  
Remus forces his eyes open again, but he still sees nothing but the tunnel his concussion has afforded him. Then, for some cruel reason, his sight returns and is filled with Greyback, crouching before him while dangling Neville by one ankle.  
  
“So sweet,” Greyback asserts again, snaking his tongue out and licking Neville’s face.  
  
The boy’s face is reddening and Remus wonders if this is from his increased screams or from being held upside down. Remus moves to grab Neville but the world shifts as his legs fail him and he falls on his side. Neville screams his name and flails his arms.  
  
Greyback smirks and reaches over to unclasp the buttons of Neville’s pajamas.   
  
“Who knew I’d have the chance to bring another generation of Lupin into our pack,” he snickers, as he drags his teeth across the boy’s chest as if in anticipation for a bite. Neville whimpers before renewing his screams.  
  
Remus is vaguely aware of the decision to kill Greyback that he has made when he shouts the Killing Curse. He is far more concussed than he imagined, however, and his aim is off. He manages to hit another Death Eater from several paces, but Greyback still holds Neville. Greyback growls like a feral beast and grabs Remus by the throat and lifts him from the ground. Remus can feel the werewolf’s abnormally long fingernails pressing into his neck as his air supply is cut off.  
  
“Wizards care nothing for us, you bastard, we’re better off seeking blood than—“ he begins, but Remus wandlessly casts a second Avada Kedarva and Greyback’s speech is cut short.   
  
When as Greyback dies, he does not loosen his hold on Remus’s airway. Remus isn’t sure how this is possible and he tries to fight and pull away, but the prickling heat of the concussion is demanding his attention. Sweat rolling down his neck, he blacks out.  
  
Remus’s last conscious thought is that Greyback nearly killed him when he was five and unless someone notices this little arrangement soon, Greyback will successfully finish him at twenty.   
  
Sirius must still be fighting; Remus thinks, when he’s able to do that again. He must have been fighting for a long time because Remus realizes that he’s very cold. When he opens his eyes, he finds himself in a shadowy sort of place.  
  
“Really must have hit my head,” he mutters, as he scrambles to his feet.   
  
It is about then that he notices his nudity.  
  
“Well, that certainly explains the chill,” he quips and then notices the pile of clothing before him.  
  
He blinks. Nope, those defiantly were not there a moment ago. There is also the added concern that this outfit—one of Remus’s favorite—no longer exists. The beat-up old Gryffindor jumper met its demise last winter when Sirius caught the sleeve on fire while poking at a log in the fireplace. And the trousers had disintegrated after too many washings.  
  
Remus pulls both pieces of clothing on and is comforted at their soft, familiar feel. There is a small cry from next to his foot and he looks down to see Neville on his stomach sniveling. Remus leans over and lifts the child into his arms.  
  
“Moo,” the boy sniffles, as if trying to assure himself of Remus’s identity.  
  
“Yes, son, Moony’s here.”  
  
He looks around for something to wrap the naked child in and out of the mist come a blanket. He retrieves it and winds it around Neville. The boy sighs and snuggles into Remus’s shoulder.  
  
“Moo,” he reasserts.  
  
“Yes,” Remus replies and begins to walk forward.   
  
The shadows suddenly retreat and Remus is met with the sight of a train station. He blinks and shakes his head to clear his vision. Even still, the sight remains. He hears the roar of an engine as a train pulls in and the distinct orders for “all passengers to check in with a conductor before boarding a train” in English, Slovenian, Italian, Russian, and Mermish.   
  
“Oh shit,” he breathes, slightly horrified, “we’re dead.”  
  
There is little doubt, after all, these last weeks he has spent researching death spells and immortality and he has come across the description of limbo multiple times. Remus makes a slow circle, expecting another attack perhaps, and takes in his surroundings. To his right somewhere, someone calls for “Ferir Greyback.” Remus turns sharply and watches as a figure—like a beam of light transferred by a mirror—receives a ticket and leaves for a specific track.  
  
Remus hugs Neville closer and begins to walk forward. He has no desire to meet Greyback again, but clearly he will receive directions if he follows the other werewolf’s trek. Suddenly, an elderly man in train conductor’s robes steps into Remus’s path. Remus backpedals in shock; the man, just like the clothing, has just appeared. On principal, Remus is immediately wary of men who appear out of thin air, but he feels especially nervous around this man for some reason.  
  
“Remus John Lupin?” the conductor asks, with a voice like crackling paper.  
  
“Yes?” he replies hesitantly.  
  
“And Neville Franklin Longbottom?”  
  
“I have him here,” Remus says, hoping that the boy will not be taken from him.  
  
The conductor nods and scribbles something onto a clipboard in his hand. Without looking at Remus he begins giving orders.  
  
“You’re both to wait here; the Grim is coming for you,” the man says with little emotion as he looks down at his clipboard. “He will see to your placement after that.”  
  
Remus sucks in a breath in preparation for a question, but is cut short when he sees the conductor look away. There is an itching in Remus’s bones, as if he knows he’s forgotten something but can’t remember what. The entire station freezes around him. All the dead—those bits of reflected light—stop and then follow the conductor’s gaze over into the dull nothingness. Remus feels his attention being drawn there as well. Suddenly, out of the shadows there is a pulse, like a light or a deep bass drum shuddering through the darkness. Then another. And another. And then the darkness drops away as if it is frightened and Remus can clearly see that Sirius Black is striding toward him.   
  
In life, Sirius is a vivacious creature. He is boundless energy and insatiable curiosity. He sweats life. Here, however, on the doorstep to the Afterlife—he is life. His skin has taken on prismatic colors and his face is nothing but radiance. The Dead around Remus look like light, but Sirius is like looking into the sun.   
  
The train station is silent. Even the engines are still before the Lord of the Dead. Remus feels his throat dry and his tongue swell in his mouth. Neville sniffles and reaches out a chubby hand to Sirius.   
  
Sirius stops a step before Remus and looks him up and down slowly. He reaches out and takes Neville’s tiny hand and kisses the fat little fingers.  
  
“You’re both ridiculously young to be chasing death, you know,” Sirius jests, but the joke doesn’t light his eyes like usual.   
  
Remus wants to return the humor, but like Neville, he is simply mesmerized by the beauty of life that spins off of his lover. Then Sirius is speaking but the words are too complicated for Remus to understand. He can only stand there, looking at Sirius in wonder. Then, Sirius reaches out and strokes Remus’s cheek affectionately. This action seems to transfer the words he has spoken into Remus’s brain.  
  
“I can only take one of you back, Moony,” Sirius repeats in a sad whisper. “I only have the power to take one of you. I have to choose.”

 _February 19, 1981  
  
_  
Aaron Trumann apprenticed as a casket maker under his father, who apprenticed under his father, who, as it is said, learned from his father. At forty-odd years old, Aaron had been grateful for the impending war. Business has not been good; the old-wizards’-homes now had their own in-house casket services. Unless the tides turn, the Trumann Casket and Urn Shoppe will go under soon.  
  
“We’ll have customers again,” he exclaims, running his hands over his spread of tools.  
  
His wife Sarah eyes him with an expression of horror and disbelief. She stands from her wingchair and drops her book onto the chair’s cushion.   
  
“This is no foolish Slytherin chess match,” she snaps as she pins her black, pointed hat to her head. “Who do you think loses in wars, _my darling_?” she sneers.  
  
“Don’t go getting philosophical on me, Sarah,” Aaron retorts, pointing at her with a jointer. “No one wins in a war. I am simply trying to find something good in this rot.”  
  
“I married a fool,” she tells her father-in-law from beneath the brim of her hat. “A damn fool.”  
  
“Money does that to us all, child,” he replies, slowly pulling the hat’s veil over her eyes, “The guard is out. I’ll walk you home.”  
  
Sarah looks out onto the road where four Death Eaters patrol. She shudders and leans on the windowsill, waiting on her escort. An owl flutters down to the glass and she pushes the pane free to let it into the shop.  
  
“The war, Aaron,” his father drones exhaustedly, “will give you more work than you can keep up with.” His father moves to the wall behind the counter and takes down a ring of enchanted keys. “Grindelwald killed you mother and took my life from me. I have spent sixty-seven years hauling, planking, and hammering wood. I have buried every one of my customers, but none of those sales have affected my life like the war. I will not work through another one.”  
  
With that, he hands Aaron the keys and steps toward the door.   
  
As he is clasping his cloak, Aaron asks him, “You’re retiring then?”  
  
The older wizard pulls his hood over his head and takes his daughter-in-law’s arm, “I am. I will not bury any more innocents. I will not suffer another war.”  
  
The door falls shut behind them, leaving Aaron in the shop with ancient keys and an owl baring an order. He reaches forward and retrieves the parchment from its leg. The handwriting is careful and elegant, that of an aristocrat. But there is waver in the curl here and a drop of ink there that suggests the emotional state of the note’s author.  
  
Aaron’s hands shake and he sets the parchment on the countertop with force. He stares out into the street watching the shadows that pass by his shop. Some of them are humans who flee for their lives and worry about their families, some are called humans, but hide under silver masks, fearing no one but their master, and some are nothing more than emotion-eating wraths that float on the wind.   
  
The war has begun and Aaron Trumann has just received his first order for a casket. He will spend his afternoon planking and hammering a box for the six-month-old son of Sirius Black, the one whom will save them all.   
  
-  
  
Walburga ripped the parchment into shreds and hurled them into the fireplace.  
  
“Foolish, sodomizing bloodtraitor! Thinking that I would honor his dead! The dead begot of his filthy, unnatural relations with that mutant half-breed!” she storms around the room hurling insults and flicking her hands in wide gestures.  
  
“Wife,” snaps an authoritative voice from over her shoulder.   
  
She whirls to face the portrait of her husband. He stands straight and tall, glaring out of his frame at her.   
  
“You will honor Sirius’s right to bury his dead among us,” he commands, locking his painted eyes with her’s.   
  
“I will not,” she challenges, rearing up and strutting toward the portrait of her long-dead husband. “He is a bloodtraitor, a faggot, and no son of mine!”  
  
Orion lifts an eyebrow before speaking in his calm but commanding way, “He is Lord over Regulus and I. He will be Lord over you in your time. He is last of the line.”  
  
“He holds no power over me! _I am a Black!_ He is no one of consequence! Regulus was the end of the line! Our name died with him!”  
  
In the painting across the room, a nineteen-year-old Regulus, in full traditional hunting robes, heaves a heavy sigh.  
  
“Mother,” he begins, as if speaking to an addled child, “Sirius has carried on the line at this point—“  
  
“Yes,” says a painting of a woman across the room, as she sips her tea, “but the lad is dead now too. Will Master Black being rearing any others?”  
  
Regulus shrugs his hunting rifle up onto his shoulder, “Who knows, Si always did things his own way.”  
  
“You will not speak that name in my house!” Walburga shrieks, spittle flying free of her mouth as she stamps her foot in anger.  
  
Regulus and Orion regard the woman carefully. The portrait of the distant relation sets her tea cup back into its saucer and wanders out of her portrait to find somewhere else to recline.  
  
“Wife,” Orion begins again, a tint of anger in his tone, “Send word to your son that he may bury his child in the Black crypt.”  
  
“I will do no such thing! I have only one son!” she screams, her voice rising in volume and octave.  
  
Regulus looks long-suffering at his father and then shakes his head.  
  
“I have burned the bloodtraitors from our tapestry! I will not allow you to defame the Black name any further with his unnatural relations!” she spits, rounding on Orion’s portrait.  
  
Orion looms in his frame and Walburga freezes.  
  
“He will destroy the Dark Lord and you will want his connection then,” he says in a cold way.  
  
She sneers, “The Dark Lord will win! He will cleanse the bloodlines!”  
  
“And what value will that be, wife, if there is no Black line left to carry on?” the painting retorts.  
  
Walburga fumes and sputters.   
  
“He is dead to me!” she finally spits out.   
  
Orion glares at her but does not respond.   
  
Regulus straightens and calls out of his frame, “Kreacher!”  
  
The house elf pops into the room and bows low to his mistress. Orion watches his son with dull oil colored eyes.  
  
“Kreacher,” Regulus says, “go to Sirius. Take him the key to the Black crypt and the locket. Make sure he understands its significance.”  
  
The house elf’s eyes flare with anger at the sound of Sirius’s name.  
  
“You will do no such thing!” Walburga screeches.  
  
Regulus glares at her before turning back to the elf. “Fine. But you _will_ take him the locket, it was your sworn duty. It was your solemn vow. If you do not honor my wishes, I will no longer call you in the service of the House of Black.”  
  
“Indeed,” Orion asserts.  
  
The house elf bows and leaves to his duty, while his living mistress screams and hurls insults at her dead.   
  
-  
  
Michelle watches her husband hoeing potatoes without magic. She finds this behavior strange, but she knows he must work off his emotions somehow. The previous years of editing _the Daily Prophet_ have never stressed him to the degree that these last weeks have. Voldemort’s twisted reporting and blatant lies keep Andrew awake at night. There is little Michelle can do about it now. She steps out onto the porch and calls out to him.  
  
“What’s happened, love?” she asks.  
  
He straightens from over his garden patch. She admires the way the wind snaps his robes and his long, brown hair. Her eyes freeze on his face, there is a hardened fear there.  
  
“Remus Lupin wrote into _the Prophet_ today,” he says tensely.  
  
“What?” she asks surprised, as she steps down from the porch quickly, “But no one can find him! The Ministry’s been after that lot for weeks—“  
  
“His baby’s died. Voldemort’s own minions, by his own words. The Chosen One is still safe, but,” and his voice dies away, drown out by the scratch of his renewed hoeing and the sorrow hanging in the air.  
  
“What else did Lupin write?” she asks, while she touches his shoulder.  
  
“Read it yourself. I put it front page of the evening edition,” he says softly.  
  
She gasps and grabs his arm.  
  
“Andrew, you didn’t! They’ll come for us for sure!” Michelle cries, glancing around in apprehension.   
  
“Damn Hufflepuff,” he says affectionately, with a shake of his head, “Of course they will; you knew they would in time. But at least the world will know that we’re not the only one’s hurting—even Sirius Black himself is on the run and aching. And if he can keep fighting, then, well, love, the world will have hope yet.”  
  
Michelle stares into his face and then straightens her spine.  
  
“Very well,” she says, grabbing a rake from nearby, “I’ll turn the compost out onto the carrots.”  
  
-  
  
James Potter stands looking out the window into Remus and Sirius’s garden. There is a sharp chill in the air and a heavy frost on all the trees, grass, and bushes.  
  
In the far corner of the garden, under a large elm tree, Sirius is digging a hole. Remus stands beside a small pine box looking up into the sky. They do not speak to one another.  
  
“We should have a proper burial,” Lily whispers from James’s side.  
  
He does not turn to her.  
  
“We can’t. They’ll arrest us if we go into public. You know that,” he says, exhaustion hanging on his words.  
  
“A Muggle cemetery then—“  
  
“There are no anti-Inferi charms in place on those. Imagine what it would do to them if he came back and they had to fight him—“  
  
He stops speaking when she begins to sob.  
  
“Oh, James,” she cries, as she buries her face into his shoulder, “everything is so- so… wrong. Everything is so wrong.”  
  
He rubs slow circles into her back. He watches his two friends for a moment longer before turning to look at the gold locket lying on the kitchen table.  
  
“Yes,” he says softly. “Yes, it is.”


	9. Chapter Nine

_March 27, 1981_  
  
He left because he put his fist through a wall and Sirius didn’t stop him.  
He left because they had same argument over and over again and came to the same conclusions (over and over again).  
He left because someone had to research what this word “horocrux” and this gold locket meant.  
  
But he should have stayed.  
  
Remus presses his finger onto the countertop. Scone crumbs stick to the pad of his finger. They crumble immediately. He made scones before he left. Blueberry scones. Sirius’s favorite. There are blue specks in that crumb, Remus thinks.  
  
Remus knows Sirius can’t bake to save his life. Which means, unless Lily is cooking for Sirius, he has been eating scones that are three weeks old. Remus rubs his fingertips together, dropping the stale crumbs onto the floor. By the rubbish bin there’s an empty can of black olives surrounded by seven empty firewhiskey bottles.  
  
“A good balanced diet, Padfoot,” Remus mumbles to himself.  
  
He walks through the dark, silent house pausing to look at some important details that piece together these lonely weeks. Above the mantle hangs that portrait that James painted Sirius all those months ago. In it currently, Lily is swelling with pregnancy and James is standing protectively near her and Harry. Peter is entirely absent from the portrait, something Remus finds extremely interesting. His own visage is sitting on his usual branch staring into his hands as if looking for some sort of sign. Sirius watches him before turning back to the tree’s trunk, where Neville’s name is now scratched into the bark. Remus turns away. He cannot bear to see a painting grieve, the reality is bad enough.  
  
Remus finds a mostly empty bottle of whiskey tucked into the coal bucket and another peeking from beneath the sofa. Remus runs his fingers over the smooth neck of the bottle, tracing out the lines of Sirius’s sorrow. Yes, he should have stayed. He should have known what being alone would do to his lover.   
  
“Always the social butterfly…” he thinks, wondering if Sirius’s drinking would have diminished if he had company.  
  
Remus sees that the door to the garden is open. He pushes it shut and turns the lock. Through the glass he sees there are large paw prints in the mud, and follows the trail back and forth from the lounge to the shadows beneath the far elm. Remus’s heart contracts when thinks of Padfoot lying there mourning Neville in a silent, doggy vigil.   
  
The prints trek back into the house, past the fist-sized hole in the wall by the bathroom. Remus sighs, his mind already replaying an argument had too many times.  
  
 _“—he was_ so _young, Sirius!” Remus challenged with eyes lighted with a strict passion of grief and guilt turned to anger.  
  
“Yes, and he deserved a good life!” Sirius retorted, stomping hard into the floor as he spoke.  
  
“But you decided that he deserved it less than I did?” Remus yelled, rounding on his lover.  
  
“Damn it, Remus! He didn’t know any better! He had a good life with us, but I had to choose. How could I live without you?” The words died off as the truth issued from his heartbreak.  
  
“You _selfish _fuckwit! You brought me back because_ you _needed me!” Remus snapped, as he ignored Sirius’s grief to nurse his own.  
  
“Of course I did!” Sirius gasped, as he tried to force Remus to understand._  
  
Or the words were something like that. They’d had the argument so many times, the same things said, but not in the same way. And in that round, things ended differently. Remus put his fist through the plaster of the house his grandfather built and he packed a bag and left. Sirius didn’t even attempt to stop him, just stood in the doorway of their bedroom and watched his lover shove trousers and toothpaste and parchment into a bag. It all seemed too reminiscent of Sirius being packed and sent into exile. The only difference was Sirius fought leaving, while Remus willingly fled.  
  
Remus grieved, all under the guise of travel and research. He missed being home immensely, yet he reminded himself daily that home wasn’t the same. There are no more half-words, mostly babble to decipher or jam-sticky fingers to wipe because Neville is gone.   
  
He stands before the hole and sighs. The liquor bottles are evidence of Sirius’s grief and this hole is proof of his own. He wanders further down the hall to his office. Early evening lingers on the sky, casting dusk’s colors into this office and across familiar objects. Sirius has obviously spent time in this room. Remus notices that the bookcases have been dusted and Sirius has neatly piled all the owl post addressed to R.J. Lupin on his desk.   
  
Remus grabs a piece of post at random. The scroll opens to reveal a letter of sympathy from a complete stranger. Something dull rubs open in Remus’s chest, like a blister oozing after the brush of a sock. He drops the parchment, unconcerned where it falls, and grabs the next in the pile and finds the same sentiments. Remus slumps into his chair and unfastens envelopes and scrolls at a frenzied rate. Every note and card is in direct response to his scathing letter to the editor printed weeks prior.   
  
He only skims the words, but all the same, they leave him drained and he deserts the post to his desktop as he leans back into his chair. He doesn’t remember what he wrote in his letter, but he saw that it was printed in _the Prophet_ and that the editors were sacked over it. Later, he also saw the way Voldemort’s truth spinners took his pain, grief, and love and wove them into lies and fodder against Sirius. Remus quit reading the paper after the second front-page article about the evils of homosexuality and the dangers of sexual relations with a werewolf. If there had been any question about society’s willingness to accept their relationship before, now, in a society ruled by the Dark Lord and his Mark, there was little doubt. For a moment, Remus wonders how many of those articles Sirius read.  
  
He fumbles his way out of his office. He feels disconnected, as if these condolences have made his son’s death more real. Somehow those words have made his feet unable to function correctly. Remus’s chest seems to be shrinking and he rubs at his breastbone with his knuckles in an attempt to ward away the too-small sensation of his body.   
  
Sirius’s so-called office is directly across the hall and Remus finds himself in the room before he is aware of it. The desk and chair are used for piling parchments on. The floor is also collecting stacks. Sirius has a specific filing system. He puts everything into piles according to the letter it begins with and Remus is often confused with why the water bill is filed under “R”. (Sirius had later educated him, saying “Baths are ‘refreshing,’ Moony, and water is ‘reviving.’ Of course that is in the ‘R’s.’) But years of living with Sirius have taught him not to question these categories, as Sirius takes offense.   
  
The first thing that Remus notices are the clipped articles in response to the letter he wrote weeks ago. Clearly, Sirius has read them. Remus reaches to lift one of the articles but when his eyes sight the headline “Black engaged in unnatural relationship,” he changes his mind. Instead he sits on the floor and lets his gaze linger on the far wall. To his surprise, Sirius has painted on the wall.  
  
In crisp blue paint the words stand out from the white plaster.  
  
 _“The one with the power to defeat the Dark Lord lives,  
Brother to those who have thrice defied him, born after the autumnal equinox in the year of the swine,  
And the Dark Lord will mark him as his rival, but he will have power over the dead, for which the Dark Lord cannot control,   
One must take the other’s life, for neither can exist whilst the other endures.”_  
  
Remus rubs his hand across his mouth. These words, apparently too close to Sirius’s heart these days, still make his mouth dry and his heart seize. He stares at their warnings for a long time before turning to the piles that gather around him.  
  
There are envelopes toping each of the alphabetized piles. Remus pulls one from a random stack. The author addresses Sirius as “Mr. Black” and tells him that babies have no place in war and that Neville is--- Remus drops the letter, unable to continue. He moves to another pile and finds a note card with a nargle depicted on the front. It’s from a Ravenclaw two years their senior. She offers her condolences and strong faith in Sirius’s abilities.   
  
It takes Remus hours to sift through the notes. Somehow, unlike the letters directed to him, reading words addressed to Sirius seem to take the sharp pain out of Neville’s death. People try to relate, as some have lost babies and some have lost people to Death Eaters, but none really connect.  
  
Until Remus finds the letter from James. It’s lying in the center of the room, in a pile of its own. It has obviously been read a number of times. Remus reads it again anyway.  
  
 _Sirius,  
Neville was my nephew and no one will ever fill the spot in my heart that I reserved for him. Peter was my brother and no one will ever fill the spot in my heart that I reserved for him.  
  
I have lost them both.  
  
Please don’t fall apart, Padfoot. I can’t lose you too._  
  
Remus cries then. His tears are big and fat and entirely too feminine but they refuse to be denied. He weeps from the depths of his grief. He weeps because he remembers.  
  
Remus remembers when Harry Potter was born and how he had little doubt the lad would be spoiled. He had five young adults at his beck and call—any whimper or laugh was met with an instant audience. Those innocent, piercing green eyes had induced an intense love from them all. Remus found himself discussing Bryon aloud to a four-day-old infant and reading any childrearing book that he could find. Even Hogwarts’s golden boys, the infamous friends Black and Potter, were reduced to cooing, nappy-changing child minders.   
  
“He’s so tiny,” Sirius whispered one night, as he slid under the duvet. “His whole head fits in my palm.”  
  
Remus had smiled at Sirius’s open awe and blew out the candle.   
  
“I loved him instantly, Moony,” Sirius had continued.   
  
“Amazing, isn’t it?” Remus asked with happy smile.  
  
And then Remus remembers how, many months later, he had found Sirius sitting on the floor beside Neville’s cot as he had watched the baby sleep. Sirius’s lantern cast a warm light on the sleeping child’s face. Remus hadn’t said anything, just sat down next to Sirius and leaned his forehead on the bars.  
  
“I keep thinking,” Sirius said, his voice rough and quiet, “that he is the luckiest child ever born.”  
  
Remus had turned his head to face Sirius so that his cheek was pressed into the bar.   
  
“I mean, Alice and Frank loved him. Every relative he has from the Longbottom’s and the Cartwright’s adored him. Now he’s got you—and having your love is something amazing in its own right—and me and Lily and Peter and James. They all loved him as soon as we asked them to; that’s pretty…” Sirius’s voice drifted off.  
  
“…amazing. He is very lucky.”  
  
Sirius nodded at Remus’s ending to his sentiments.  
  
“Padfoot,” Remus whispered, as he brushed his fingers across the back of Sirius’s hand.  
  
Sirius had turned slowly to Remus and watched the candle flicker on his sharp features. Remus could not catalog how many times they had kissed in their life together, but he was relatively sure that he would always remember the brush of Sirius’s lips on his at their son’s bedside that night.  
  
Remus buries his face into his hands, stifling the resurging sobs that coursed through him. He reaches into his robe pocket and retrieves a piece of parchment. Another note from James, only, this one is directed to him.  
  
 _M,  
I know I haven’t always been the most supportive of you and P. I’m sorry. I’m trying now.   
  
P is a mess. You are a mess. This whole “together” thing needs two people working together in order for it to work. I know N. is gone, I know you’re both sad. You need each other. Come home.   
  
-P_  
  
And so he had.   
  
He stumbles out of Sirius’s office and down the hall. He refuses to let himself enter Neville’s nursery, but he notes that the carpet under the cot is flattened and covered in black dog hair. He shuffles on, and staggers into their bedroom. There he takes inventory of the bed, which is still perfectly made from when he left, the dirty clothes piled next to the empty hamper, and Sirius, with his head in his hands, sitting on the floor next to Remus’s side of the bed.   
  
Remus has no words for greetings. He stands there dumb and immobile until Sirius raises his face and sees him.  
  
“You’re home,” Sirius says, emotionlessly.  
  
Remus lets the silence fill where his response should be, like a wave would fill up a hole dug into the sand. He just lets the silence puddle around them, as if it will somehow make up for the hours away from one another and the angry words they’ve shared.  
  
Then he moves.  
  
Remus drops to his knees beside Sirius and takes him by the shoulders. Sirius stiffens, as if he’s straightening his spine to meet his mother for a traditional Black family dinner. He meets Remus’s eyes. In Sirius’s gaze Remus can see what the isolation of this dead, empty house has wrought. He brushes his lips across Sirius’s in a prayer that Sirius will understand his lack of vocabulary. At the close distance to Sirius’s mouth, Remus catches a strong whiff of stale whiskey.   
  
Sirius relaxes against the bed and lets his lover lean into his neck. Even Sirius’s skin smells like alcohol and Remus wonders if Sirius has drank enough in these days to actually scent his sweat. He holds Sirius close, running his hand across the back of Sirius’s shoulders and down across his spine. The touch seems to awaken Sirius from his dull, drunken haze and he blinks dramatically before smoothing Remus’s hair.  
  
“You went away angry,” Sirius whispers, as he pets Remus’s head.  
  
“I was a fool. I haven’t been that hurt in…”  
  
“—ever.”  
  
“Ever.”  
  
“But you went away.”  
  
Remus pauses to consider just how much this conversation is like speaking to a small child who doesn’t understand the intricacies of adult relationships. He runs his fingertips under the cuff of Sirius’s rumpled shirt and brushes across the cool flesh underneath.  
  
Sirius pulls away from Remus and Remus begins to protest, but Sirius kisses him silent. They stand, equally balancing and leaning on one another, and Remus tries to guide them to the bed. These lonely, sad weeks have left him drained and he suddenly wants nothing more than to make love to Sirius. He searches through his memory for the last time they did just that and all he can supply is a hotel room, months ago, after Sirius was restored to him.  
  
This knowledge that they haven’t successfully been together in months ignites desperation in his movements. He pulls Sirius’s shirt over his head quickly and Sirius searches his face for some answer to the behavior.  
  
“I haven’t seen you in weeks Padfoot,” Remus whispers, running his hands down Sirius’s bare chest, “and we should have done this instead of fighting.”   
  
Sirius continues to stare at him detachedly, but melts at Remus’s touch. He sighs and drops his head forward, obscuring his face from his lover’s eye at the angle and the fall of his hair. Remus runs his palms across Sirius’s ribcage and around until he has circled his hands around Sirius like a belt.   
  
Sirius raises his head but an inch and presses a soft kiss to Remus’s chin, like a puppy offering a love token. Remus smiles and eases Sirius down until he is sitting on the edge of the mattress. He pulls his own robe off, slowly, almost contemplatively. When it drops to the ground, Sirius purrs in pleasure and reaches out to take a firm hold on Remus’s hips and guide him forward.   
  
Remus isn’t sure what he expects, romantic or rough, so he moves forward and enjoys the tickling grace of Sirius’s open-mouthed kisses on his stomach. As these christening touches continue, however, they become more and more wet. Remus reaches down and smoothes back the mussed black hair to watch Sirius’s tears integrate with his affections.  
  
Life, Remus muses, is full of these awkward, mixed emotion moments. Here there is long-lingering grief, one that should have been shared between two partners whom have the same sorrows. But here also is a deep-rooted love, bound by friendship, secrets, and hardships that will not yield to these difficult sorrows. He strokes Sirius’s hair slowly, feeling the slow prickle of his own tears.   
  
He slides down into Sirius’s hold so that he is sitting on his knees between his lover’s legs. Sirius does not release his hold on Remus, simply adjusts to hold shoulders instead of hips. Remus lets his head drop forward onto Sirius’s leg and brushes his lips across the denim-clad calf.   
  
They stay there as the clock ticks at their bedside and their tears recede. Slowly, Remus lifts his head and is met by sorrow-cloaked eyes and a tired smile. He reaches for his love and begins to pull Sirius forward into his embrace when a silver ghostlike Protronus enters the bedroom.  
  
It is a phoenix.  
  
It speaks.  
  
“Warriors of Israel, I ask that you gather in preparation for battle. The enemy of our soul raises his standard and lays a snare for the innocent. We shall gather at the river.”  
  
And it dissolves away, but Sirius is already in motion, tripping and falling over his feet, the rug by the bed, and a pair of discarded trousers in his hurry to reach the floo. Remus jumps up as well, chasing after Sirius with more grace.  
  
“Dumbledore is the traitor! How can you go?” he yells, making a grab for Sirius’s arm.  
  
“I’m the Chosen One, Moony,” Sirius whispers, desperation in his voice, “And we’re the only ones who know that he’s switched sides.”  
  
Remus freezes on the spot.  
  
“You never told anyone?” he gawks before shaking himself. “That’s idiotic! How could you—“  
  
“I couldn’t… I couldn’t face any of them, Remus. They are looking for a Messiah and I’m… I’m no hero.” Sirius looks apologetic as the fireplace in the bedroom springs to life.  
  
  
Sirius tosses a handful of floo powder into the flames. Remus grabs Sirius around the waist and pulls him away from the fireplace.  
  
“I’m sorry I wasn’t here. I’m sorry, Padfoot,” Remus rumbles fearfully into Sirius’s hair.  
  
Sirius nods and tries to pull away, but Remus holds him fast. Sirius tenses and moves to leave Remus’s embrace, but he is not putting forth the fight that he could if he really wanted.  
  
“No one else knows, Pads! We have to wait for Prongs!” he growls out, tightening his hold.  
  
“We can’t wait, Remus. What if this is a trap and the Order goes and then Dumbledore kills them all?” Sirius replies, a sleepy sort of defeat lurking in his words.  
  
“We’ll stop them before that happens. We’ll get James and then we’ll go. But we have to wait for James!” Remus asserts in a mix of exasperation and anger.  
  
“Moony,” Sirius snaps just as angrily as Remus, while freeing himself from his lover’s hold, “I am the fucking _Chosen One_. If _anyone_ dies then it’s my fault. I can’t lose you,” Sirius’s voice chokes, but he ploughs on, “and James too—I’m going. You’re staying.”  
  
And before Remus can react, Sirius, who previously was fumbling with a hangover, presses his wand to Remus’s breastbone and puts him into a full body bind. Remus feels his legs and arms lock and his weight fall backward. He mentally curses Sirius, who catches him before he can tumble to the floor.  
  
“I can’t lose you, Remus,” Sirius whispers, kissing Remus’s lips softly, “I can’t lose you.”  
  
Remus tries to fight Sirius’s spell as he is laid on the bed with care, but there is no give in the hold of the charm. Sirius leans over him and presses his lips to Remus’s forehead.  
  
“I love you, Moony. I love you.”   
  
Remus hears the whoosh! of Sirius’s exit and then everything is still. Remus begins to count long seconds while cursing James’s slow reactions and Sirius’s hurried escape.  
  
 _One purple hornlump, two purple hornlump, three purple hornlump, four purple hornlump, five purp—  
_  
And James Apparates into the house. He calls for Sirius and Remus can hear him running about the house in search of Sirius. Finally, James makes it to the bedroom and once he has seen Remus unable to move, he curses.  
  
James lifts the spell and begins a volley of questions.  
  
“Did he leave? Has he gone? Did he tell you which river? Is it the Thames in London? Or is it that bend in Oxford?”  
  
Remus just shakes his head and grabs James by the bicep to get his attention.  
  
“He said it might be a trap, that Dumbledore—“  
  
“He’s fully changed side, Moony. Completely. While you were away, he cornered Lily at the British Museum—“  
  
“Why was she there? Where is she now?”  
  
“—research. She’s safe, she’s with Molly. But that’s not the point,” James says quickly, grabbing Remus by the arm, “He wanted the cloak and then told Lily _he would spare her children_ if she joined Voldemort—“  
  
“What?! That doesn’t sound like him at all—“  
  
“Dark magic changes people, Moony,” James says softly before tossing Remus his robe and side-Apparating them to a dodgey part of London.   
  
Remus has enough time to note that they are standing on the bank of the Thames next to a piece of a brick and a Tesco bag before James grabs him again and whisks him away in another Apparation.  
  
They land in a field outside of Oxford, a place Remus recognizes from his childhood rambles as Port Meadow. There is a thick fog rolling off the Thames, but even still Remus can make out a few streetlights far off in the field and the dim gong of one of the spire bells clanging the hour. The ground is wet and soggy and Remus can feel chilly mud oozing into his shoes.  
  
The Order is standing in a group, like a herd of sheep in a pasture. Remus can hear Sirius yelling something, but then another voice answers him. The second voice rises over Sirius’s, uncharacteristically loud and strong.   
  
Peter Pettigrew shouts out, “Lupin, _the werewolf,_ has changed sides!”  
  
And Remus spins to face the voice, but James knocks him sideways instead, just barely missing the barrage of curses that shoot past his head. He raises his wand and he and James duck left to avoid the attack of those fighting for the Light.  
  
“Pettigrew switched sides!” James yells to the Order, firing off a shield spell, “Dumbledore switched sides! They’re Death Eaters!”  
  
“They’ve been Imperiused!” Peter shouts, “Just stun them! Don’t hurt them!”  
  
Remus wonders if maybe Peter, the boy who was once their brother, is still alive somewhere under that burned Death Eater tattoo. But this thought stops short when the Death Eaters, here at their baited trap, spring upon them, raining down curses, but ignoring Peter.  
  
Then out of the mass of Order members, Dumbledore emerges. Sirius is pursuing him with a lunatic look in his eye. Dumbledore looks back at him for only a second before shouting an order to his followers.  
  
“Attack!” Dumbledore rumbles and his followers move into a line to fend off their enemy.   
  
The Order and their foes close in, obscuring Dumbledore and Sirius from Remus’s view and for a moment a wild panic wells up in him. James shoves Remus again and they both move, while shooting random spells at the Death Eaters, in search of Sirius.   
  
The mist swirls around them, broken only by beams of light as spells issue forth from wand and warrior. Remus can feel the magic whining around him, hissing in his bones and squeezing at his being. Perhaps this is why Sirius chose him to live, for his natural grace and finesse on the battlefield. Sirius will need warriors, after all. Remus forces back the fresh grief for Neville with a shake of his head and focuses on dueling and searching for Sirius.  
  
At last they find them, bare-chested with his long hair whipping as he moves to engage Dumbledore. His skin is innocent and white against this dark fight of evil and night; it reflects spells like a looking glass reflects his own beauty. Sirius turns sharp, his hair snapping against his cheek like a flag on a ship in her Majesty’s royal navy. Remus’s heart is thundering in his breast, he probably shouldn’t be aroused by his lover fighting in a war—but he is.  
  
As he and James near, they can hear Dumbledore speaking. Remus does not fail to notice the challenging twinkle in the wizard’s eye.  
  
“You could surrender,” Dumbledore coos with his wand fixed on Sirius.  
  
“Or you could explain why you—the wizard who defeated Grindelwald-- submitted to the darkest wizard of the age. They both practiced Dark Magic and knowing you as I do, I would have expected Grindelwald to be the one to persuade you, not Riddle. So tell me, old man, what was so enticing about Voldemort?” Sirius asks, warily.  
  
A trio of Death Eaters advances on them and James turns to meet them in battle. Remus disserts his attempts at eavesdropping to duel those in silver masks. It is strange, the other wizards are like a circle of dancers with their magic clashing and colliding. They remain ignorant of the conversation held by the two leaders of the Light in the eye of this strange hurricane.   
  
Even Remus is distracted from their words to focus on his own sparring. Then, there is a sharp movement to James’s right and Peter, with sharp, rodent like eyes, steps out of the fray. James stuns a Death Eater quickly, before turning to Peter.  
  
“What, Traitor?”  
  
Peter ignores James for the first time in his life.  
  
“Come with me,” he says to Remus.  
  
Remus knits his brow and stares. Peter is overexcited, like a puppy rushing to get out of the house to chase a squirrel. He bounces on the balls of his feet, eyes sparkling eerily against the fog about them.   
  
He doesn’t seem convinced at his own words, but he still speaks. “My Master will gladly receive you and—“  
  
Whatever else is about to be said is lost when Remus fires a curse that throws Peter several meters backward. Peter lands with a thump and a squish in the soggy ground. Remus redirects his attention to a Death Eater advancing on him. As they trade hexes, he hears Dumbledores words.  
  
“—was my love. You have the power to restore him to me—“ and the wind blows and Remus loses a few words, but he hears Sirius’s reply.  
  
“—death’s hold. I cannot do such a thing—“  
  
Remus blinds his foe as he hears Sirius yell, “NO. I will not submit to your Master’s goals, nor will I conduct some magic for your own search of power!”  
  
Remus thinks that the words are bold and over-dramatic, like a romantic hero from an Alexander Dumas novel. Regardless, James and he turn back toward Sirius and Dumbledore just in time to see Dumbledore’s face contort into some mask of hatred and danger. Sirius watches Dumbledore move to raise his wand, but Sirius is faster than the older wizard. In an instant, a jet of green light fires across the night and Albus Dumbledore falls dead to the wet ground.   
  
In that moment, the battlefield slows and Peter’s words echo through the fight.  
  
“Sirius! _You killed Dumbledore!_ How could you?”  
  
The Death Eaters smirk and the Order freezes. Their leader is dead, killed by their Chosen One—their Messiah. The pause and the confusion is enough and the Death Eaters lunge. James and Remus both react.  
  
“Padfoot!” they yell in tandem, while sprinting forward and firing spells.  
  
But the Death Eaters are ahead of them, they hurdle Dumbledore’s body and close in around Sirius. Sirius, muscles taunt and flexing under goosefleshed skin, fights them off aptly, but is quickly overrun.  
  
Long before Remus or James can reach him, the Death Eaters have disarmed and captured Sirius Black. They are already gone when Remus realizes he’s screaming.


	10. Chapter Ten

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Major character death.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> He had it coming. He only had himself to bllllllaaaammmmmmeeeee!

_March 28, 1981_ _  
  
_The wool of the new robe is coarse. It rubs; it scratches and claws at his bare knees. He doesn't like it. He would take it off and change into his other clothes, the clothes of his other (better) persona, but that would be seen as insubordination and he doesn't much feel like dying today.  
  
It's cold here. The kind of cold that leaves one’s lungs feeling icy and one’s limbs hanging heavily at one’s sides. It inches closer, aching to snatch away his warmth.  
  
Peter hates the cold and always has. He hates the wool robe that should make him warm but only serves to create some sort of juxtaposition: his skin that is under the itchy wool verses the skin of his hand or his ankle, which is left exposed to defend itself from hypothermia. _  
  
_ It’s the cold sea air, he thinks, that makes it so bloody cold. The air is heavy with salt, like a widow’s tears are heavy with grief; it clings to the skin and the wool and, yes, maybe even his fear, and drives him into this sullen silence.   
  
That silence helps keeps the good that he knows he must possess locked in his breast. His fear holds him and he does not argue with his Master, because there has to be a point to this madness. He does not argue. After all, he had only joined to live; it would be a waste to give up on living now.  
  
In the center of the room Bellatrix is muttering in her way. She waves her hands and snarls out her orders in a sort of rambling command that will eventually come to some climatic conclusion where--usually-- someone will die. She is illuminated by a broad fireplace, which is too far away for Peter to enjoy. He tries to focus on her words because their Lord has left her in charge. Not for the first time, Peter questions his Master's judgment. _  
  
_It’s hard not to, he thinks. But maybe that’s the last embers of his inner-Marauder flaring up again. It tries, from time to time, in some tired and silly attempt to save his soul and restore him to his friends. Peter bites his lower lip. He tells himself (as he has for the past months) that his life is more precious than having friends. But it’s hard to believe when Bellatrix is ranting on and on about Mudbloods and fools who have declared as traitors.  
  
He remembers Sirius’s heated words about this woman. How Sirius had painted his cousin as mad and incapable of kindness. Sirius had been right. Peter gnaws on his lower lip harder, wondering, again, if he has done the right thing.   
  
The Dark Lord promised him things when he came to join the Death Eaters: his life and Remus Lupin. But those two things, while extremely dear, seem distant while this lunatic raves about those whom they are eliminating. Peter’s mind drifts away and ignores her railing against the Order. The organization, facade though it was, it was full of good people-- people he used to love.  
  
His heart is closing off and he knows it. With the exception of these moments of self-doubt (which are becoming further and farther in between), he is quickly becoming a callous man. Maybe that is the purpose for their fort being set up here in this ex-prison. There is nothing good to be found in Azkaban.  
  
Perhaps, Peter thinks, there are good things her _e—Sirius--_ but he may not live to see that goodness survive.  
  
Bellatrix is talking about Sirius now, in fact. She calls him “The Enemy” and “The Fool”, her own blood sullied by his politics and his decisions-- as if he requested to be the one to destroy the Dark Lord.   
  
As she launches into a fresh tirade, Peter noticed that the ring Sirius had been wearing is glittering on her finger. Peter’s blood runs cold as he remembers what Sirius forced him to see with that ring. Then he remembers the visible relief sculpted onto Remus’s features when Sirius was safely back in his arms.  
  
Peter wonders how Remus is holding up without Sirius. He wonders if he could go to Remus and offer comfort in his time of need. Would he respond? Could Peter finally have what his heart desires?  
  
He lets his mind wander off to a warm afternoon, sunny and summery-- far from this cold, winter prison—to a place where he is feeding Remus bites of a picnic and kissing his lips until he looks at Peter like he worships him.... _the way he looks at Sirius._ There would be goblets of purple-red wine and bitter chocolate, fresh bread with cheese and grapes, ants and warm breezes through tall weeds--  
  
"Wormtail!" Bellatrix shouts, dispelling the weeds and the wine.  
  
Peter shakes himself into alertness. He is still not sure why his Master has taken this nickname and dubbed him in this way. He is still mildly upset about it. "Wormtail" is for spying on birds in the 4th floor washroom, and for dungbombing Fitch's office, and for early morning omelets after a romp under the full moon-- not for these snake-tongued bastards.  
  
"You will go to that bloodtraitor and collect as much information as you can--"  
  
"What?" Peter squeaks, feeling his throat convulse with a gulp and rub at the scratchy wool clasped around his throat.  
  
"That traitor with whom I share blood--- _your friend,_ go to him and find out about his plans to attack my Lord. Go. Go, you fool!" she shouts and Peter runs away from the assembly, legs trembling.  
  
He has successfully avoided Sirius for the three days since he was captured. It has been good, not confronting his cowardice. But now, now there is no more leeway. He stumbles on the salt-worn stone hallways, feeling the air in his lungs constrict even more as he moves away from the meeting halls and towards the reign of the Dementors.  
  
Everyone breaks in these halls, Peter thinks. It is just a matter of time and the correct encouragement. There are those still screaming in defiance... like Albus Dumbledore did before he was granted the chance to see his lover again (his one true wish). There are those who still mumble about the Light and their Hope and the Good... like Marlene McKinnon, who dove to defend her savior Sirius Black at the Battle of Port Meadow. But mostly, they are silent. Tortured by their memories (or what is left of them), they wallow in fear and loneliness, crying noiselessly and praying for death. They have little to their minds left-- it's very disturbing to witness.  
  
But the Dementors have been leaving many of the other prisoners alone these days, choosing instead to gather around one particular cell, feasting on the one who their Master hates and longs to see destroyed. Peter can already see them in a queue around the door to the cell, longing to get closer, hoping for a taste of the newest soul. Peter shivers and thinks of a happy thought.  
  
_Four boys. Squished on a bed. One boy with long, dark hair looks up and says, "You're my best friends." And the little boy, the pudgy one who no one has ever cared for before, says "Me too?" And the dark headed one laughs like a dog barking, and the messy-haired one laughs heartily too, and even the light-headed one chuckles. And the dark headed boy says, "Yes, Peter. We're friends."_  
  
And a silver-wispy rat leaps from the end of his wand and scampers toward the door, sending Dementors fleeing down the hall. Peter watches in fascination as the smallest mammal sends the stuff of nightmares fleeing. He does not hurry as he unlocks Sirius's door and enters his cell cautiously. He knows how Sirius acts when in a rage; thus, he expects to be strangled.  
  
But Sirius does not attack.  
  
Peter is surprised and makes a quick assessment of the small stone room. The cell is bitter cold, with a sharp wind carving through the cracks in the rock wall and around the bars in the tiny window at the ceiling. Peter shivers and looks around for his former friend. He finds him, the non-descript mass in the far corner, balled in on itself. It wears no shirt or robe, only trousers, which are torn and dirty.   
  
Sirius is not himself. He has always been one for open movement, but he is now tightly wound into a ball. His hands are fisted tight over his eyes, his knees drawn into his chest.   
  
Peter stands very still for a moment, assessing the situation. Then he moves forward.  
  
“Sirius?” he questions carefully.  
  
There is no reaction. _  
  
_“Sirius?” he asks again, edging forward.  
  
There is a slight movement, but it may only be Sirius quaking with cold.  
  
Peter is close by now. With his wand still in his hand, he squats down.  
  
“Padfoot?” he tries, quietly, voice lost to the vicious wind.  
  
There is a whimper in response. Tentatively, Peter reaches out and touches Sirius’s shoulder. The skin is as cold as the stone walls, tinted in blue. Sirius sighs at the heat of Peter’s hand eases some of the frozen muscles.   
  
“Sirius?” Peter tries again.  
  
Sirius makes a strangled cry and pulls his fists in tighter to his eyes.  
  
“Please,” he whispers, chilling Peter with the desperation of his tone, “please, please, no. I’ll be a good boy. Please.”  
  
Peter is instantly transported back to the long-gone days when Sirius would awaken the entire dorm room with his night terrors. The words are eerily similar. Peter shivers.  
  
“Padfoot,” he says, shaking Sirius’s shoulder, “wake up.”  
  
Sirius inches toward Peter’s warmth, but does not relinquish his position.  
  
“You need to tell me what the Light is planning,” Peter tells the unresponsive shoulder. His attempt at a command is failing; he is not made for such a position, he knows.  
  
Sirius does not respond, just whimpers again. Out of the corner of his eye, Peter sees his Wormtail Patronus begin to clean his whiskers.  
  
“Sirius,” Peter says again, exasperated, “I’m cold. I want to go back to the fire. Just tell me what James and Remus are planning.”  
  
There is no response for long, heavy moments. Then Sirius asks cautiously, like a child whom has been punished for misbehaving, “Who are they?”  
  
Peter blinks in surprise and withdraws his hand from Sirius’s shoulder. Slowly, one of the fists comes away from Sirius’s face and Peter is met with a childlike innocence that Sirius probably retained when he was much younger.  
  
“W-w-wh-what?” Peter stutters.  
  
“James and Re… Re-somebody. Had a funny name. Who are they?”  
  
Peter’s mouth falls open and he stares. Sirius shivers noticeably and then wiggles his other fist away from his line of vision and he stares at Peter hard. _  
  
_“I know you.”  
  
Peter blinks in surprise.  
  
“How do I know you?” Sirius asks, his voice scratchy from screaming.  
  
Peter finds himself responding without expecting to, “We went to Hogwarts together.”  
  
Sirius simply nods.  
  
“Those other people too? They were at school with us?” he asks as he fights chattering teeth.  
  
Peter blinks again and again. His surprise will not clear from his head.  
  
“James. James Potter. You don’t remember him?” Peter asks in disbelief.  
  
Sirius stares at Peter for a long moment and then pure agony etches across his features.  
  
“He-he saved Snape… from dying! Oh, oh, Merlin, I did that… I hurt them. I hurt them… I betrayed them!” Sirius wails, clutching at his bare shoulders and hunching in on himself farther.  
  
“You hurt who?” Peter asks desperately. _  
  
Remus,_ he thinks. _You betrayed Remus’s secret!  
  
_ Sirius simply cries out again and shakes his head as if trying to clear his memory.  
  
“Them! Them!” he cries again in frustration.  
  
The Dementors begin to float into the cell then. Peter watches as Wormtail leaps up from his grooming and looms between the menace and those he needs to protect. Peter feels his heart fail. His Patronus knows that he must protect Sirius—his friend.   
  
Peter looks down at Sirius and feels like, for the first time, he is between two very defined choices. He knows he can let his friend die and take his Master’s offer to have Remus Lupin as his own.  
  
Or he can step back into his shoes as a Marauder and act like a Gryffindor.  
  
Peter raises his wand to his temple and extracts a series of memories. He pulls out a memory of seeing Sirius kiss Remus in their seventh year in the Charms classroom. He removes a memory of Remus smiling at Sirius during Christmas holidays. He removes Sirius holding Remus at his mother’s funeral. He yanks the memory of Remus caring for Sirius when he was ill at the Potter’s wedding free. He pulls out the memories of Sirius and Remus with Neville. For each memory, he moves them carefully and lets them glide into Sirius’s forehead.  
  
Each time Sirius sees them, he gasps and hugs himself tighter.  
  
“I’m so sorry, Padfoot,” Peter draws.   
  
He gives a quick, apprasing look at the Dementors before he transforms and runs through the frozen night to find a way to contact the only other two people who ever called him a friend.  
 _  
March 29, 1981  
  
_ This is the reality: He’s twenty-one years old, unemployed, and a traitor to his own government. He is a member of an underground vigilante group. He thinks he has killed about fifteen people, but he actually quit counting sometime ago, so it’s sort of a guesstimate. He has craved a wine gum since the day the Ministry put all Muggle sweets on the “rationed” list (which was a polite way of saying if you were caught in possession of that item you were immediately imprisoned). He has also developed a nervous hankering for nicotine, although he’s never smoked a day in his life. (He wonders if this is just his system longing for Sirius’s smoky kiss.)  
  
This is the current reality: He’s sitting in Minerva McGonagall’s flat listening to an assorted group of wizards and witches scream and yell at one another. Remus ignores their words, in favor of bouncing his knee and he wonders if Minerva has a cigarette.   
  
“Why are we still fighting?” Dorcus Meadows asks, anger flaring in her voice. “The Chosen One is ta _k_ en, _we’ve lost.”  
  
_ “Do you really believe that?” Gideon Prewett snaps, without his traditional humor.  
  
“He’s been captured, you idiot! We’ve lost!” she retaliates.   
  
Fabian shakes his head. “I don’t believe that. I don’t.”   
  
“Neither do I,” Hagrid asserts, wiping at his eyes as if he’s trying not to cry. “Poor lad! Merlin knows what they’ll do to him.”  
  
“I could give you some suggestions,” Benjy Fenwick whispers, rubbing at a long scar healing on his arm. Remus doesn’t want to think about torture, so he pretends not to hear. The others shout on, anyway.  
  
“They’ll kill him. It’s over!” Elphias Doge snaps, pounding his palm with his fist. “I say we get out of the country while we still can.”   
  
“It’s not over,” James Potter asserts, leaving no room for argument. The room stills. Moody looks at James with a slow, searching look.  
  
At his right, Lily Potter brushes worried fingers over her abdomen before speaking.  
  
“We have a quest and we have jobs that we need from each of you. This is not finished. Sirius will defeat him—“   
  
“—How can he defeat You-Know-Who?” Molly Weasley snaps, “When they are done with him we’ll be lucky if we have a corpse to bury!”  
  
She waves _the Daily Prophet_ at the group, allowing the headline “Black Captured!” and the corresponding photograph of a bloodied Sirius to deride the group. Remus stares down at the front page and can think of nothing but a too-large bed with one side uninhabited and too cold, of an abandoned razor in the medicine cabinet, and of a photograph on the front page of paper baring Sirius’s emaciated, broken, beaten face that had left James retching in the toilet.  
  
Lily leaps up from her seat, yelling back at Molly, “That is my children’s godfather and my husband’s brother. You will not...”  
  
Lily screams on, but Remus does not hear. He watches Minerva stand, stiff at her age, and lean on her cane. She took three stunners to the chest during that battle in the soggy field of Port Meadow and she shows the lingering effects.  
  
It’s slow and tedious trek, but he follows her with his eyes as she limps into the kitchen. He counts to three, ignoring James’s yell and Molly’s sneered retort, before standing and breezing into the kitchen. He pauses in the doorway, watching his former professor slam cupboard after cupboard defiantly. She rounds on him after he politely clears his throat. She looks him up and down. He knows what she sees. Since Sirius was taken, he isn’t sleeping well and he can’t stomach food. He looks paler than usual, with dark, yellowing circle under his eyes, almost like a patient suffering from renal failure. He looks like a man who has lost it all, which is nearly the truth.  
  
“What can I do for you, Professor?” he asks, hoarsely as she closes another cupboard without finding what she needs.   
  
“Nothing, Remus, nothing,” she replies with a wave of her hand. “Go back to the meeting.”  
  
He shakes his head and walks further into the room. Her countenance is clouded, as if she is thinking of things that weigh heavily on her mind.  
  
“Whatever you need, Professor, I’ll do it,” he asserts, straightening.  
  
She looks him over again slowly, before she retrieves a cylinder of Muggle biscuits.   
  
“I’m out of chocolate spread, those ridiculous ‘war rations’ and all. Do you mind plain rich tea biscuits?”  
  
He glances at her and shakes his head.  
  
“Minerva,” he states, as if her name is a full statement.  
  
She stops moving and eyes him with cat-like awareness. He wonders if she can see his heartbreak in his eyes.   
_  
“What,”_ he begins, desperately, “do you need? Everyone is so careful around me and unless I do something I will go mad.”  
  
“No,” she replies, looking away from him and tearing open the plastic wrapping, “if he dies, you’ll go mad.”  
  
Remus stares at his former tutor for a long moment, his emotion unreadable. Minerva leans on her cane and edges toward him. His eyes light with a desire for purpose. She knows the feeling—it is not in a Gryffindor’s making to sit by and let a friend (or a love) suffer at the hands of evil.  
  
“We have to find him, Remus. We have to free him,” she whispers, so that the others will not hear.  
  
“Moody has sworn that if any of us go off after him—“  
  
“—is that what has held you back, Mr. Lupin?” she snaps, and Remus starts at her angry tone.  
  
“I would have gone after him in the same moment—“  
  
“—I know that. And they’re watching you. They’re afraid you’ll do something—“  
  
“Then they’re right. I’ll do anything. I will not let them take him… I can’t live my life knowing that he died because I was too afraid to…”  
  
Minerva reaches out and touches his shoulder gently. The action directs his voice to fall away as if in indecision.  
  
“Remus,” she whispers, “no one is accusing you of being a coward. We all know—we all know, that you’ve made up your mind to take any necessary action to save him.”  
  
“I love him. I’d die for him…” Remus whispers, his words weighted with emotion.  
  
“I know that, Remus. I know that.”   
  
He can see in her eyes the reality that he may do just that. _  
  
April 3, 1981  
  
_ There are crocus and daffodils blooming at the house. The post box still has the name “E. Lupin” painted on its side possessively, even if the “E” himself is long since dead. Peter stands at the junction where the walk meets the street, staring into the yard of the house where Remus lives.  
  
Tall trees spread their limbs out as if in mid-stretch, shading the new grass and flowers with brightly colored, new leaves. Squirrels bounce from branch to branch, spying on the spy from their high perches. They chatter at him angrily. Peter ignores them. He is grateful to be alive to see this new birth of the earth. He has lived to see another season: Spring has finally come.   
  
He remembers that once someone had told him that Spring symbolizes new birth. It seems fitting then, he thinks as he marches up the front garden toward the bright blue front door, that he has come to see his old friends and save another—he has been reborn.  
  
Peter knocks on the door with determination. He will not be frightened off.   
  
Then he wonders why the wards are still keyed to him.  
  
Then he wonders why Remus is unlocking the door without asking for proof that he is not an Inperioused.  
  
Then he wonders why Remus is standing there in an open doorway without a wand.  
  
Then thoughts fly from Peter’s head. Remus looks like he is dying. He is pale, almost like his skin has been covered with flour. His eyes are bloodshot like he’s been drinking. He looks heartbroken, like his love has been sent to Azkaban.  
  
Peter stands on the stoop openmouthed in the warm Spring sunlight. Remus steps away from the door and wanders into the house without looking backward. Peter stands frozen on the step for a long moment before following Remus into the house.  
  
There are no candles lit, no fires burning, and no warm sounds echoing down the hallway. Peter feels an unsettled nausea swimming in his gut. It should not be silent in this house. It has never been this quiet before. There should be a gurgling baby (but the baby is dead, Peter helped with that, he remembers). There should be the lonely song of Sirius’s violin (but Sirius is captured, Peter helped with that as well, he remembers). There should be laughter and exploding things and general sounds of life here in this place. Peter feels hollow. He has done this, he knows. He is responsible for this death of a home and of his friends and their child.   
  
There is the sound of Remus’s bare feet padding on the polished wood floors and Peter follows the sound into the kitchen. Remus stands in the middle of the room staring at the wall as if it holds all the answers to life. Peter clears his throat when he enters the room. Remus does not respond.  
  
“Moony,” Peter begins, squeaking a little, “how-how h-h-h-have you been?”  
  
Remus does not reply.  
  
Peter shifts his weight.  
  
“I’ve been to see Sirius.”  
  
Remus turns to face him, but his countenance is empty. Peter stutters, suddenly trying to deliver the message as quickly as possible.  
  
“He’s bad, Moony, he doesn’t know who I am… he didn’t know who you or James were—“  
  
“Shut the fuck up, you bastard,” Remus hisses, his voice low and dangerous.   
  
Peter stills, his eyes huge and frozen that way as Remus glares at him. Remus’s face is cruel, as if it’s been hewn from wood.  
  
“You come here for… what exactly? The chance to rub it in my face?” Remus growls.  
  
“No! No!” Peter yells, defensively, “I came to tell you where he is—“  
  
“In exchange for what?” Remus snaps, his voice icy and hard.  
  
There is a heartbeat. Peter has no answer. If he’s honest with himself, there has never been a time in his life when he has given something without expecting something in return. Even his friendship and his love he expects to be returned. He licks his lips and tries to phrase the words “nothing, I’m just doing what is right,” but different words come out instead.  
  
“You.”  
  
Remus stares at him for so long Peter begins to worry that Remus has put some spell on himself. Peter shivers; when those hazel eyes do not move, Remus looks like a corpse.   
  
The air in the room chills, despite the warmth the Spring sun brings in through the window as Remus begins to laugh. His chuckle is humorless, hoarse and low.   
  
“Of course,” Remus replies, his eyes remaining as crisp and clear as violence, “you would ask for that, wouldn’t you?”  
  
Peter rings his hands. This is his chance; he holds the ultimate chip in this game.   
  
“I can tell you where he is and how to get in,” he replies, dangling the offer before Remus.  
  
“And for what, you rat?” Remus asks, crossing the room at a dangerously slow pace. “A quick fuck?”  
  
Peter finds himself taking a step away from Remus’s advancing form.  
  
“N-n-no. No, I want you.”  
  
Remus laughs again. Peter is suddenly aware of how alike Remus is to Bellatrix with her shrill, hideous laugher. He wonders that, as with Sirius’s cousin, this encounter will leave someone dead. Remus looms closer and Peter’s foot catches the edge of the cupboards and he trips, falling backward into the wall, where he slumps.   
  
“What do you want, Pettigrew?” Remus asks, his voice rough, a careful balance between madness and hatred. “To rut into me like some whorish dog?”  
  
He reaches forward and grabs Peter’s robe in two fistfuls. He yanks the garment open and uses one hand to stroke the bared flesh at Peter’s chest.  
  
“Is this what you had in mind?” Remus growls, still without raising his voice. “Some sort of seduction?”  
  
Peter shivers, but takes what is presented to him. He shifts forward quickly and presses his mouth to Remus’s. Remus does not move, he stays perfectly still while Peter tries to persuade some passion from his mouth. Their kiss breaks and Peter sees that Remus is unmoved. Only his eyes have changed. They are no longer a hurricane-tossed ocean of violence, but now a still, frozen pond of misery.  
  
“It will take more than that, Lupin, if you want to know where he is,” Peter whispers; his best attempt at seduction.  
  
Remus’s eyes flicker and he drops his handholds on Peter’s robe. He freezes there, hunched over his former friend, face unreadable.  
  
Then he unfolds and stands to his full height.   
  
“Is he even still alive?” Remus whispers, eyeing Peter.   
  
Peter nods eagerly and pulls himself up before swaggering into the hall. This must be the feeling James and Sirius waltzed through Hogwarts with—this power, it is like the finest mead. It leaves a man floating.   
  
Peter stumbles only once, when he sees the watercolor hanging above the mantelpiece. He strains to see the action that the figures are enjoying, but there is no joy there. Sirius is folded in on himself, ignoring the others. Remus watches him, heartbroken. Lily is coddling Harry and trying to keep James from running to Sirius.   
  
Peter shakes himself and leads on. After all, he was once a part of the family depicted there. But he no longer belongs in their frame. It isn’t too surprising that his form is missing from the canvas.   
  
Behind him, Peter hears Remus following. Peter does not slow, he makes up his mind and leads the other man up the stairs to the master bedroom. He tries to ignore the obvious owners’ possessions. But even so, he must step over Sirius’s jumper and bypass their shoes piled in a tangled heap. He ignores the photograph of a laughing Sirius nestled in Remus’s lap that sits on the bedside table. As he sits on the edge of the bed, however, he turns the photograph so that the glass is face down on the bedside table.  
  
Remus’s pace slows when he reaches the bedroom door. His eyes scan the room, taking in the familiar setting and the usual disarray of the belongings. Peter does not miss the fact that Remus’s face darkens when he notices that the beloved photograph is laid out of sight. But Peter will not wait for Remus to change him mind.  
  
“Come here,” he commands, drunk on his elated power.  
  
Remus’s face deadens, defeated.   
  
Peter smirks. For once, it’s nice to be the cat in this game of prey and predator.   
  
Remus enters and advances to the bed. Then his vision settles on the pillows that rest on the bed and his face changes. His jaw sets and he looks straight at Peter. Peter suddenly feels the power change hands. But before he can react, Remus has whispered a spell and is holding Peter’s wand in his left hand.   
  
Peter makes to climb to his feet, but Remus strides forward and kicks Peter in the kneecap forcefully. The bone snaps and the muscles give. Peter cries out in pain and falls backward onto the bed. He scrambles up, clabbering for a hold, with his hands tangling in the duvet and his weight rocking forward desperately.  
  
But Remus is towering over him and then settling his knees on either side of Peter’s hips, straddling him and shoving him backward. The tawny haired man leans over until his face is next to Peter’s ear.  
  
“Where is he?” Remus whispers.  
  
Peter doesn’t mean to answer, but the words slip free from his mouth in fear.   
  
“A-a-ah-azkaban!” he squeals.  
  
Peter notices that Remus is not holding the wands anymore and so he makes a move to escape, kicking his legs about, trying to find some floor to balance on. His broken leg scratches and tears, but the entire struggle is hopeless. Remus levels himself and grabs Peter firmly about the throat and begins to strangle him.  
  
“How could you?” Remus ask with a quiet anger, “We loved you? We would have protected you—given our very lives to save you.”  
  
Peter makes a garbled gasp, grabbing at Remus’s wrists desperately. He thinks of Desdemona, trapped beneath her husband, begging for mercy, begging to be killed the next day instead. Remus, like Othello, only tightens his grasp and continues to speak.  
  
“You are a fool. You could never have me; I am not my own.”  
  
Peter croaks; it’s an attempt to speak, to beg, but it is nothing more than his last word. He flounders, his vision swims.  
  
Remus holds on tightly, shaking Peter from time to time until Peter quits fighting. An hour passes. But still he holds on tight, until he is sure that Peter is dead. Then, he staggers away and vomits until there is nothing left to throw up.  
  
Then he wipes his mouth with the back of his hand and stumbles down the stairs to the floo to call James. Before he leaves the room, however, he rights the photograph on the bedside table.  
 _  
April 4, 1981  
  
_ They leave the warm sunlight behind them and entire the world of fog. They are armed and silent, gliding up to the stone fortress in dark cloaks and stern faces. They shiver. They huddle together. They prepare for battle.  
  
The North Sea is a violent place to be in a small dinghy. The gray waves slosh over the sides of the boat and puddle inside. It doesn’t take long before the water is slinking into their boots and climbing up their cloaks. It is a miserable ride toward a terrifying and equally as gray fate. The fog is low and thick, like a woven blanket drawn over the ocean. They cannot make out the prison until they are nearly at its gates.  
  
Remus cannot watch the ocean for long because of the fog. It is so close to them that it is hypnotizing. He wonders if there is some magic in this weather that makes a man lose his mind. He contemplates this for too long before he begins to observe his fellow passengers. Minerva McGonagall sits at the stern of one of the rickety boats whispering a prayer to her dead. Remus hears the names of her husband and her daughter (lost to Grindelwald) and her son and her daughter-in-law (lost to Voldemort) in between the gusts of wind. He sees James pull Lily closer to him and touch her waist and their unborn child, placing his blessing and protection on both them. He sees Arthur Weasley, without wife or child, lean forward to speak to his brothers-in-law. In turn, Fabian nods and looks back to the shadowy fort looming before them. Gideon reaches over and grabs Remus’s forearm.  
  
“Are you ready, Lupin?” he whispers.  
  
Remus only nods.   
  
Of course he is ready. They are here to save his love. How could he be unprepared?  
  
Gideon only nods and turns his own gaze to Azkaban: Voldemort’s Headquarters. James and Remus share a long look between them. It is the moment shared between two brothers. Remus knows that he does not have the connection that James and Sirius share, but regardless, they are Marauders and they have their own understanding of one another.   
  
James nods, slowly, with all the regal overtones of his stag counter part. Remus just lifts his fist to his mouth and kisses it. Lily gives a little cry at the recognition of such a weighty symbol and grabs his hand tightly.   
  
The boat scrapes rock and runs aground. From the bow, Mad-Eye Moody stands to his feet and gives the grounds a look over with his magical eye. He then turns and points at individuals, giving directions for their attack.   
  
Lily and James join Arthur as they bank left across the smooth rocks, Remus follows them with his eyes but they are quickly lost in the deep fog. Without a second to spare, he ducks into line behind Minerva and they circle around toward the right.   
  
The plan is vague, but simple.  
  
Get inside Azkaban. Get Sirius. Get out. Don’t die.   
  
Remus shivers in the thick fog. He cannot count his dead at this moment, but he refuses to acknowledge the reality that one more may fall this morning, in this gray haven of mist.


	11. Chapter Eleven

_April 4, 1981_  
  
When Lily was a little girl she played hide-and-seek with the neighborhood children. The games were simple, mostly because out of the neighborhood children, she was one of the oldest. She especially enjoyed the games on days when Severus Snape joined in. There was something enjoyable about playing with someone who had the same moments of spontaneous magic that she did.   
  
When they returned for their first winter holidays, the neighborhood children bundled up in coats and scarves and came out to play a few winter games. Severus had rolled his eyes.  
  
“Why would we play with _them_? They’re just _Muggles_ ,” he sneered.  
  
“I’m a Muggle,” Lily had retorted.  
  
“No,” Severus stated, defiantly, after a pause, “you’re a Muggle born. That’s different.”  
  
Lily had just shrugged and forced him to play the game. That season, the game was a variation of hide-and-seek, with the young girl from down the street insisting that her dolly be allowed to play. As a result, the doll was hidden and everyone hunted for her.  
  
The game annoyed Severus to no end. He had been determined to end it. Whether the magic was done with or without his wand Lily never learned, he turned the doll invisible and sent the Muggle children to hunt for it. The doll was never recovered.  
  
It was a Slytherinesque trick that broke the little girl’s heart. In the end, Lily should have seen the clues then that her childhood friend was long gone and was slowly being replaced with a dark wizard.   
  
Standing so near this frigid ocean prison reminds her of that game. Here they are, simply witches and wizards; searching for a man in a place that should be straightforward, but who knows what these snakes have done to the rules. They may never find Sirius.  
  
Even so, they ask for no pardon and run head on into the unknown. But still she worries that it is too simple. Save for the moon, hanging nearly full and low in the morning sky, the entrance to Azkaban is not guarded. She and her husband creep inside, sneaking about in the damp air, desperately looking for their friend.  
  
The ceilings are low and crooked, as if the violence of thousands of waves have forced the building to shift and slant until the floor is no longer level. They stumble over the stones that jut too far above their brothers and they slip and slosh in unseen puddles. James holds his wand out before them and Lily stays close behind him, wand ready, watching the way they came from. A prisoner whimpers somewhere down the corridor and they both jump to attention, wands directed at the sound.   
  
They look at one another for a long moment, hoping one another’s faces will help their pulses slow and their attention refocus. As Lily’s breathing settles again, she hears the steady drip-drip of the leaky stones over their heads.  
  
When they begin walking again, it’s slow and methodical. They glance into each cell, looking between the bars into the dingy light of early morning hoping to recognize the captive. The prisoners are vaguely aware that they are there—some follow their progress with haunted eyes—but none are able to call out for assistance. They have been in this house of horrors for too long.   
  
Lily inches closer to James without appearing to do so. James leads on, determined to find their lost brother. Then, somewhere on the floors below them there is a resounding boom and a yell followed by shouts and pounding feet. Then heavy, angry magic tingles in the air. One of the other search parties must have been located.  
  
James grabs Lily by the arm and they hurry down the corridor. They are noisier now that their presence has been discovered. After all, it would not take an Alchemist to figure out that a rag-tag rescue team would only be interested in finding one wizard. James splashes through an oily puddle as they round a corner.  
  
Once they make the turn, they know they have found him. There is hoard of Dementors, eighteen or so, floating agilely in front of a rusty cell door. Two Dementors turn immediately toward the Potters and begins to advance on them. James, however, raises his wand and effortlessly casts the Patronus Charm.   
  
Prongs bursts forth from James’s wand tip, tosses his head, and charges forth with his antlers lowered in a battle-worthy manner. The floating horrors abandon their meal and flee like magpies from a rotting carcass. James runs to the cell door and waits impatiently while Lily speaks the spell that unlocks the door.  
  
James dashes into the cell before the door is fully open.   
  
It is hard for her to look at Sirius and not see him as a 12-year-old boy when her eyes find him. He’s leaned against the far wall, with his head tucked between his knees, shivering in the cold. She is startled to see that he is clothed in nothing but a pair of stained and torn black trousers. Lily wonders how ill he will be from his stay in this wretched place.  
  
Regardless that she is worried about his health, she watches happily as her husband is reunited with his brother. James drops down beside Sirius and gathers him into his arms like he does to his son when Harry has a nightmare.  
  
“I’m here Padfoot,” she hears him whisper hoarsely, voice distorted with worry and anguish, “I’m taking you home now.”  
  
Sirius unfolds but a little, clinging to James’s cape and burying his face into James’s chest.   
  
“James…” his voice is no more than a dying man’s rattling breath.   
  
James hugs Sirius tightly and Lily can see the relief lined in his face. Lily eases down onto her knees on the uneven stone and strokes Sirius’s dirty hair.  
  
“We’re here,” she soothes, “we’re going to take you home.”  
  
Sirius turns his head but a fraction of an inch so that his face is still mostly hidden by James’s skinny chest.   
  
“To Moony?” he rasps.  
  
“He’s here, love,” Lily coos, stroking his head lovingly. “Would you like to see him?”  
  
Sirius just nods slightly. Lily smiles as James pulls out his Invisibility Cloak and wraps it around Sirius’s shoulders. There are shouts somewhere below them as wizards duel. Lily tries to ignore them and focuses on James caring for Sirius.  
  
“All right then, Pads,” he coaxes, as he covers Sirius’s head with the Cloak’s hood, “let’s go find him.”  
  
Lily, now four months pregnant, uses the wall to stand up with as James pulls an invisible Sirius up with him.   
  
“Ready, my love?” James asks his wife with a tiring smile.  
  
She pulls her cloak tighter around her, straightens her spine, and flicks her wrist so that gold sparks shoot out of her wand. Down the hallway there is the sound of impending foot falls. She smiles.  
  
“Off we go then,” she says, resting a hand on Sirius’s unseen forearm.   
  
They are not very quick in their retreat as they trip over the slippery rock floor and as Sirius falters. Lily keeps glancing behind them, seeing the advancing shadows of Death Eaters just as they round corners, staying barely ahead of their pursuers. She casts an anxious look at her husband, who curses quietly.  
  
“Should have brought my broom,” he grumbles, and she silently agrees.  
  
Unseen, Sirius coughs. Lily squeezes his arm in reassurance.  
  
“Just another few turns, sweetie,” she promises, “then down a back set of steps, out into the yard, and back into the boat.”  
  
James catches her eye, worry etched into his brow. The number of Death Eaters will most likely double upon their entrance to the yard. If all goes well, the Advanced Guard will be in place to allow them safe crossing to the boat. If not…   
  
Lily just smiles comfortingly at James and begins to hum Harry’s favorite lullaby and they stumble closer and closer to their exit. Suddenly, a brilliant green curse screams past Lily’s shoulder and all three of them crouch down, pulling themselves closer to the far wall and lower to the ground.   
  
James and Lily shoot hexes and curses back at the Death Eaters, while hustling down the hallway further. Sirius is extremely unsteady on his legs at this awkward angle, but Lily keeps pushing him down the walk.  
  
Her lullaby increases in tempo, but does not stop. It takes her a moment to realize that James is only firing curses off on the downbeat of the song. Not for the first time, she wishes he were less clever and less bold in duels.  
  
They reach the corner directly before the stairway and she feels James shove Sirius’s weight at her.   
  
“Hurry!” he says, pushing them toward the entrance to the stairwell. “And be ready for more of them at the bottom!”  
  
James moves away from them, firing off more spells to slow and kill their enemy. Echoing up the hollow stairwell, she can hear screams of curses and pain. Sirius seems to be gaining his mind and strength again, but he is still sagging against her. She watches James move with agile grace as he casts spell after spell. Curses and hexes deflect from his shield charms or bounce of the black stone walls. Lily panics.  
  
“James!” she cries out, clinging to Sirius to keep him on his feet.  
  
“I’m right behind you, love,” James assures, low and loving. “I’m just giving us a head start. Now go, sweetie.”  
  
She stands there frozen for a millisecond before Sirius speaks.  
  
“C’mon, Evans. It’s an old Marauder trick. C’mon. It’s ok, I promise.”  
  
Lily stares into the empty space where Sirius’s head should be and nods, trusting what she cannot see. Her heart is relieved to hear him speak so normally, perhaps the damage of this place is not as thorough as Molly Weasley had suggested. They begin to descend the treacherously steep and slimy steps. Once they reach the middle of the staircase, James dives into the safety there, tumbling and rolling down the stones as a purple explosion bursts to life behind him.   
  
His roll accelerates and he crashes down the steps, knocking into Lily and Sirius and throwing their feet out from under them. Sirius must see James coming, because he pulls Lily flush against him, so that their middles rest against one another. The three tumble and fall down the stairs at differing speeds and distances.   
  
When he comes to a stop, James looks up from the stair he is strewn across.  
  
“Love?” he asks, terrified for his wife and unborn child. “Lily? Are you—“  
  
Sirius groans and shakily pulls himself off of Lily, pushing the hood of the Invisibility Cloak off as he does so.  
  
“I better be Godfather of that sprog, woman,” he rasps, “I certainly earned it.”  
  
Lily feels her elbow and hip bruising, but she leans forward and kisses Sirius’s floating forehead and then pulls the hood back in place.  
  
“I think we’re all right.”  
  
She certainly hopes that she isn’t lying.  
  
There is shuffling from above them and all three look back. Lily clamors to her feet, stiffly. James falls toward them, grabs Lily with one arm and Sirius with the other, and tugs them along, out of the stairwell and into the frigid ocean air.  
  
As they exit they are met by chaos amongst swirling fog. The other search parties have now joined one another in a fierce battle against the Dark. Lily notes that there are less members fighting for the Light than arrived earlier. She tries not think about it. The Death Eaters are angry; their fortress has been attacked and someone (if everything went according to plan) has plundered their inner sanctum and stolen every piece of parchment in sight. To some degree, the fight is now more a turf war or a fight over a stolen toy. Magic slings through the air like schoolboys throw rocks.  
  
Mad-Eye is leading a line of witches and wizards against a handful of Death Eaters. Lily can see a few that she knows and she is grateful to see Remus is still alive, dueling with someone who has retrieved their silver mask. Minerva McGonagall is limping more than she was a few nights ago, slowing her attacks and tensing with pain. She raises her shoulder to alleviate some tension and, in doing so, sees the Potters at doorway.  
  
“We’ve got Black!” McGonagall shouts, and the line forms, preparing to allow the rescue team to run for the boat. Lily does not miss that Remus glances back toward them and smiles tightly. The relief is palatable—they’re nearly home free.   
  
They move quickly. James takes one side and Lily takes the other—they clutch Sirius between them and begin a mad run for the rickety boat bobbing on the shoreline. As they dash behind the line, dodging hexes. Sirius stumbles on a larger rock and Lily assumes that he is looking for Remus.  
  
But she realizes that he is actually watching Voldemort, when an unearthly voice yells, “I fear that I will have to stop this little mission, as I intend to keep Mr. Black here and kill him.”  
  
James does not slow to look, but Lily chances a glance over her shoulder to meet eyes with Lord Voldemort. Her heart skips beats with her panic. He grins. She gasps.   
  
All of their espionage said that Voldemort was away from Azkaban that day. They had not attacked this fortress unprepared. And yet, here was the king of his castle returned and leading his troops into battle.  
  
Then, Lily rips her gaze away from those ruby eyes and focuses on the far obstacle of the boat that waits for them. They run harder. If Voldemort is here, none of them will live, she thinks. Well, Sirius might, but knowing how ruthless the Dark Lord is, she doubts that many of the others will survive this meeting.  
  
Sirius starts to slow his run, perhaps thinking of something very similar, but James gives his arm a sharp tug and they speed up again. They might make it to the boat, she thinks. But then she hears something, well, someone, and her blood slows.   
  
“Well, _Riddle_ , I fear that you’ll have settle for a substitute. You see, I promised that Sirius would get off this damn pile of rocks and I don’t go back on my word,” Remus Lupin challenges.  
  
Lily doesn’t let herself look to see her friend facing off Voldemort.   
  
Sirius, however, tenses and begins to plant his feet, pushing his heels into the rocks of the shore. He squirms and twists in their hold.   
  
“Moony!” he yells, but his hoarse voice barely carries over the wind.  
  
“You are a worthwhile challenge, of course, Werewolf, but, ” Voldemort replies, courteously, “but I have never ‘settled’.”   
  
Lily does not stop to see Remus scream and fall when she hears the Cruciatus Curse used on him. She holds onto Sirius tighter and continues to drag him toward the boat. They only have a few more steps, she tells herself, ignoring her tears and her breaking heart.  
  
“Moony!” the invisible Sirius yells again, fighting harder. “James, damn it, let me go!”   
  
“Have to get you safe,” James chokes, his own emotion holding his voice.  
  
“No,” Sirius moans, being shoved at the boat.   
  
And then he turns and breaks free of them. Lily knows it’s happening, but she just isn’t quick enough. James simply closes his eyes tight for a split second before launching himself toward the fray with a vicious yell and a raised wand. Lily follows him with her eyes, before preparing for war herself.  
  
Then Lily gasps.  
  
Remus is staggering back to his feet and Voldemort is watching with some sick fascination, wand still resting in his hand as if he plans to curse Remus once more when he’s regained his footing. Remus shakes himself off and lifts a wobbly arm against his foe. His wand remains held lax in his trembling fingers.  
  
Then, like a climax in an aria, the air shimmers as Sirius throws off the Invisibility Cloak. Without pause, he runs to stand behind Remus. Their bodies fit together in the foggy morning, bare chest to cloaked back.   
  
Sirius locks his hand overtop Remus’s and they hold the wand together, two united against their enemy. The wand steadies. Tenderly, Remus reaches back and finds Sirius’s other hand and with this touch both, somehow, stand up straighter.   
  
Voldemort’s humor is extinguished. His eyes and voice no longer portray that part of one who is intentionally losing a game to a small child. Instead, there is now killer, unfeeling rage.  
  
“Shall we end this now, then?” he asks, coldly.  
  
Sirius simply grins impishly and curls his fingers around Remus’s.  
  
If Lily ever recounts a battle to her children, she most likely edit the details. For retelling purposes, no one would bleed or die, no one would scream. Of that particular battle, however, she will leave in the important truths, and tell them how Remus and Sirius simultaneously cast the same spell without speaking to one another. And she will tell them about how Remus leaned back into Sirius’s chest when the dual spells fired from his wand.   
  
James will insist that they explain how the rest of the battle froze, and how all the warriors were watching that dual spell counter an angrily cast Killing Curse.   
  
But if ever asked, Remus will never tell how the force of the two spells made his wand convulse and how he worried that it would splinter under the power it was harnessing. He will also insist that no one explain the advanced theories of Herthrope’s Ratio of Radius Chance, which describes that for every 7 million spells cast on a linear plane, there is less than a .029 of a chance that 1 of those 7 million spells with collide with another spell. If those comments came out, it might be apparent that Remus expected to lose that day.  
  
In the chill of that dawning morning, there is an angry snap of power when Voldemort’s spell clashes with the duel spells from Remus’s wand. Those standing on that rocky battlefield feel the ancient drag and pull of potent magic in the air. It tingles under their skin and lets the magic that lives in their persons know that these enchantments are superior to the average wizard’s spells.   
  
The ends of the spells are laced together, tethered at the end of Remus and Voldemort’s wands. The spark and push at each other, like oil skating on top of water. Neither mixes, neither relinquishes its boundary. Voldemort’s eyes squint into slits of red light, fire angry. Remus locks his elbow, feeling the pulse of the magic draining his already-tortured muscles of their strength. Sirius is already weak from his imprisonment, this duel is tiring him.  
  
Voldemort gives a yell of rage and flicks his wand upward, in an attempt to break the spell, but the line of magic that attaches the two wands merely carries with his movement. He yells in rage again as Remus and Sirius try to stay focused and hold onto their spell.  
  
Then Lily sees McGonagall moving toward them. She moves with a cat-like grace that somehow makes her invisible to most of the Death Eaters. She is at Sirius’s shoulder before the line notices her advancement.  
  
Lily does not hear the words exchanged, but there is an argument and then, quickly following, an agreement. McGonagall kisses Sirius on the cheek and places her hand overtop the two men’s conjoined hands before transforming into a cat and charging Voldemort. The cat leaps into the air, aiming straight at the Dark Lord’s chest. At that same moment that Sirius and Remus relinquish their hold on their spell and dodge backward, avoiding the last sparks from Voldemort’s spell.  
  
The sudden break in the spell sends Voldemort reeling and the cat to the chest surprises him further. He stumbles backward as Minerva transforms and places her wand to the Dark Lord’s throat. Remus and Sirius are running backward, pausing only to grab James’s cloak and to order a retreat.  
  
Lily yells at them to turn and save their former professor, but Voldemort has already killed the elderly witch. Lily cries out as she sees Minerva’s body crumple beside the Dark Lord as he attempts to regain his footing. Several blundering Death Eaters try to assist him and they are all cursed for their brash attempts to touch their leader.  
  
The Light is breaking like waves against a cliff, running to escape via boats. They fire spells as they flee. Lily, however, remains transfixed, watching the battle before her. To her surprise, Gideon Prewett grabs her by the hips and lifts her into the closest boat.  
  
“Off you go, lass!” he calls, with a grin.   
  
His twin shimmies up to his side.   
  
“Ready then, Gid?” Fabian asks his brother as the Light runs past them to get into the boats.  
  
“Indeed,” Gideon replies, holding out his wand.  
  
Fabian touches his wand tip to his twins and they set identical, determined expressions.   
  
“Give our love to our sister,” Fabian calls to Arthur as they roar out a battle cry and run, two men against the line of pursuing Death Eaters.   
  
Lily cries out for them to come back, but James is already shoving Sirius over the side, into the boat, and he and a shaken Remus are pushing their boat into the water. Moody runs past both of them and jumps in as well.  
  
“In, _now_ , boys!” Moody commands and both Remus and James sling themselves over the sides of the rickety dinghy.  
  
Spells rain down on them as the two boats—less populated than when they arrived—float away from the island prison and into the deep morning fog. Lily grabs James up from the bottom of the boat and pulls him to her.  
  
“Are you all right?” she asks, pushing his messy hair away from his forehead.  
  
He just nods and looks back toward the rocky shore that has been hidden by the thick fog. They cannot see the Death Eaters under the orders of their leader challenging Fabian and Gideon. They do not get to see these heroic deaths.   
  
However, when Lily turns her line of sight to the two men lying in the pooling water at the bottom of the dinghy, she sees the value of their sacrifice.  
  
Remus is slowly touching Sirius’s cheekbones, nose, chin, lips, and hair all in turn and all with a certain amount of awe. His eyes are searching Sirius’s features for some sort of answer. Sirius, in turn, is simply lying in the frigid, gray seawater staring back at his lover.  
  
“Riddle’s still alive,” Sirius rasps and Remus reacts like he’s been punched.  
  
Remus reaches out again, stroking Sirius’s face and silently offering comfort. Moody speaks from somewhere at the bow.  
  
“We’ll get him, Black. There is a time for all things… today was not his day,” he rumbles, all the while allowing his magic eye to swivel and stare back in the direction that they came from.  
  
Holding onto her husband, Lily begins to cry.  
  
They have faced Voldemort. They are all still alive. There are more battles ahead. She prays that they’ll live to see peace.


	12. Chapter Twelve

_April 19, 1981_  
  
Harry squirms in Catherine’s arms. James watches his mother-in-law coo to his son.   
  
“Such a good boy, aren’t you?” she sweet talks, leaning into Harry’s tiny cheek.  
  
Harry whines, looking desperately at his father before reaching out for James. James sighs. So much for the war not affecting children, he thinks, before walking over and claiming his son from Catherine’s arms.  
  
“Oh, James,” Catherine clucks with false-brightness, while trying to keep her hold on Harry, “I realize he’s your first, but I hardly ever see him—“  
  
“Mum,” Lily interrupts, brushing past the dish-laden table and resting her palm on Harry’s small spine, “Harry doesn’t have a clue who you are—“  
  
Harry’s body relaxes once he is against James’s chest.   
  
“Well he would if you lot brought him by more often. It’s not on, Lily Ellen, not allowing a child to know his grandmum just because it’s inconvenient—“  
  
James feels Harry nuzzle into his father’s brown t-shirt, as if digging for the smell of safety.  
  
“Mum,” Lily starts sternly, “it’s not safe for us to come by—“  
  
James pats his son’s nappied bottom comfortingly.  
  
“Lily, that is absolutely foolishness! I know that you think that you and your friends are of value in this little war, or whatever—“ Catherine would have carried on had Lily not dropped _The Daily Prophet_ on the table before her.  
  
Catherine looks at the photograph slowly. She scans the articles and then, eyes darkening with fear, looks back at her daughter.   
  
“That’s you,” she whispers, pointing to her daughter’s name on a list of ‘Undesirable Persons’ printed on the cover page.   
  
“Yes, Mum,” Lily says gently, touching her mother’s elbow. “We’d have come by if we could. But, damn it, Mum, they’re after us. They’ll do anything to get to Sirius.”  
  
Catherine stares down at the photographs and script and then excuses herself quickly to avoid crying in front of her guests. Lily says nothing, just traces her finger along the edge of the newspaper and leans closer to her husband. Harry sighs a little milky sigh. James feels the tension wane from Harry’s little body.  
  
Catherine refuses to acknowledge the war and their part in it for the rest of the night, but the tone is set. Their dark mood lingers even when they are joined by Lily’s stepfather, sister, and brother-in-law for dinner. James has never minded his in-laws, but he detests Vernon Dursley with a passion. There is something about bigoted people that makes James’s skin crawl.   
  
James tries to ignore Vernon and enjoy himself, but it is simply impossible. Vernon is determined to make himself known, also, James thinks privately, to make himself seem tougher than James.   
  
“What is it you do, exactly, Potter?” Vernon asks, condescendingly.  
  
James grimaces. “Well, before the war, I worked in the Ministry of Defense, training to be an Auror. But now, since the Ministry is defunct, I suppose I’m a solider.”  
  
Vernon sneered, raising his head a fraction of an inch, as if to offer an acknowledgement of the role.  
  
“Yes, well, that’s… something, I suppose. Especially among your sort. I, however, am the top junior sales representative for—“ and the whale-like man launches into a detailed analysis of drills and drill sales. Harry, born with his godfather’s sense of humor, gives a particularly loud and wide yawn. James has to agree. Vernon glares at his nephew, but Greg, Lily’s stepfather, took the break in Vernon’s monolog to hedge a question.  
  
“How bad is it, James?” he asks, fiddling with his napkin.   
  
James pauses. Greg is unfamiliar with magic, more so than the rest of Lily’s family, but his ability to assess a situation is unreasonably precise. He’s unsure of how to proceed; he could give away too much information and worry them sick. He could totally underplay the conflict. Neither option is best, so he defers to Lily, catching her eye and holding it for a long moment. How much of the reality of the situation do they need to know, he wonders. Harry, bless him, offers an answer.  
  
The messy haired boy holds up his spoon as if it is a wand and points it directly at Dudley.  
  
“Nev?” he asks.   
  
Dudley looks confuses and offers a garbled whine. Harry waves his spoon in a more definite attempt at flick and swish at his cousin.  
  
“Nev!” he calls, as if his hopeful attempts will transfigure the fat-faced child into a far more familiar pudgy boy.  
  
Lily clears her throat, and James is aware how near to tears she is when she speaks. “Our friends’ just had their baby murdered. Harry was kidnapped—“  
  
Catherine gives a very appropriate gasp and even Petunia clutches the tablecloth in concern.  
  
“—they’ll stop at nothing. They’re killing Muggles in parks and green grocers and train stations now… I don’t know… I don’t know if it will stop. Four of our friends were killed recently…”  
  
“…No, Lily. Three of our friends were killed—“ James interrupts, anger rising in his voice.  
  
Lily looks at him steadily, her eyes are defiant. “Peter was our friend once—“  
  
“Peter is the reason Neville is dead. He kidnapped Harry. He captured and tortured Sirius. He betrayed us all. He’s no friend of mine,” James snaps, heatedly.   
  
Although their friendship was years in the running, James can find no sympathy for Pettigrew anymore. Peter is a traitor. He deserves the fate that was served to him.  
  
Lily opens her mouth to reply, but then shoves her chair from the table and offers to help start the dishes. She leaves the room without receiving any sort of agreement. Vernon looks amused and flustered at the same time and takes another bite of his chicken. The table lapses into silence until Petunia, in an attempt to restore normal conversation, turns back to her brother-in-law.  
  
“So what are you naming the new baby?” she asks.  
  
James begins to reply, but then wills himself to be silent. He and Lily haven’t had a free second to even consider the baby’s gender, let alone its name. James feels a bit sick suddenly; the war, which has taken so much, has taken this joy from him as well.  
  
 _April 23, 1981_  
  
Lily is still angry at him for the dismal dinner conversation. The house is eerily quiet. Sirius is tickling Harry in the nursery, preparing to put him down for a nap. Lily is out violently weeding the back garden. James sits in his favorite chair, looking out over his lonely yard, when Remus comes into the room.  
  
“Prongs,” Remus begins, and James turns to face him. “I need a favor.”  
  
Hours later, when Lily and Sirius are successfully distracted, he and Remus Apparate to the house that Sirius and Remus have lived in for years. They climb the stairs slowly, moving toward the sickening stench of rot.  
  
“I think we’ll move,” Remus whispers, eyes lingering on the doorway to Neville’s nursery.  
  
“Yeah,” James replies, nodding, “can’t blame you.”  
  
They don’t speak when they grab a hold of Peter’s stiff ankles. The smell is overwhelming, but they levitate the corpse down the steps and out into the back garden. It is like some out-of-body experience, standing in Remus and Sirius’s bedroom, banishing the remains of Remus’s vomit from a corner and annihilating the proof of Remus’s actions. Four years ago, he would have never estimated that he would be part of the clean up crew for one of his best friend’s murders. But then again, he wouldn’t have assumed that he would be a part of many things that are now his current existence.  
  
“Please don’t tell Padfoot that I did this,” Remus whispers, pleadingly. “He knows Peter is dead. That’s enough.”  
  
James follows Remus’s gaze to the photograph of the two lovers on the bedside table.   
  
“He should know.”  
  
“Someday, I promise, I’ll tell him,” Remus replies, staring at his hands.  
  
James nods and they set out.  
  
James and Remus randomly Apparate to a Muggle shop and dump the body in a green plastic wheelie bin that they find behind a Co-Op market. Neither man looks into the bin afterward-- and neither speaks of it again.  
  
 _April 26, 1981_  
  
James knows he should be paying attention. After all, Sirius has asked them, his War Council, as he’s now calling them, to meet with him and advise him on their next attack. They’re gathered around a table at the Eagle and Child, a pub in Oxford that once housed the Inklings, Remus tells them. James runs his fingers over the polished surface of the abused table, noting where the grain of the wood is uneven and warped. James wonders if he could find words engraved into the tabletop from the early drafts of _The Lord of the Rings_ or _The Silver Chair._   
  
Tonight, amidst the crowd and smoke of the late night pub goers, they eat salty chips and sip bubbled lagers. James should be enjoying the notion of being out of the house, but he is too distracted. He should be listening to Moody’s endless drone. There is little question in their motives tonight. Spread out before them are the blueprints of the Ministry of Magic, taken from Voldemort’s headquarters on Azkaban island.   
  
They are planning their attack.  
  
Moody is oddly dressed in green suede chaps, a yellow construction vest, and a red velvet bowler. Embarrassed and worried that the older wizard would draw unwanted attention, Lily has forced him to hunker against the far wall. The man seems content to be able to eye the entire crowd of this back room and alternates between tapping the blueprints for emphasis and staring out at the other patrons.   
  
Sirius is chain-smoking, easily on his fifth or sixth cigarette since they’ve arrived. He is absentmindedly watching Moody trace an attack front while bouncing his knee. The table rocks and shakes with his movement making it harder to read the maps and notes, but no one has the nerve or desire to tell him to calm down. James wonders incredulously how this man—a renowned prankster and a self-declared blood traitor—came to be the hope of the entire Wizarding World.   
  
James finds the entire thing ludicrous. This is his brother, for Merlin’s sakes; the lad who still appreciates the fine art of fart jokes and the adolescent joy of a spontaneous snowball fight. How can that sort of person be the salvation of thousands? Compared to Sirius, it’s almost more reasonable to assume that Harry is the Chosen One.   
  
He’s not angry at Sirius. It’s not as if Sirius requested this. He is angry at everything else. He hates what this world has become. In many ways, he hates whom his loved ones have become; who he has become.   
  
James Potter was Head Boy and Head Marauder. He got into trouble and served the detentions for it. He got his girl (after he got on her nerves). James had plans for his career and his friends, he hoped for a little wizarding house with a self-painting fence and creeping roses. He dreamed of birthday parties for his children where their godfathers brought too many sweets and too many jokes. He did not sign up to be an orphaned solider.   
  
And, yet, that is what he’s become.  
  
He looks at the tense faces around the table. It’s almost too much to take, so he takes a long swig of his pint.   
  
Moody reiterates something that must be important. “—and without this strategy we’ll be—“  
  
“No.” Remus’s voice is quiet, but forceful. The occupants of the table all still and look at their friend. Remus’s ability to silence an entire room without raising his voice is one of those Moony things that has always made James envious. He has to do something stupid, like climbing up on a tabletop and waving his arms to gain the attention of a crowd.   
  
“No,” Remus repeats, solemnly, “we can’t take the Ministry until we’ve destroyed the Horocruxes… otherwise it’s all for not.”  
  
Sirius leans back in his chair. He rests his palm over his mouth in frustration.   
  
“How many are there, Moony? Where are they?” he asks, his voice thick from so much smoke.  
  
Remus meets Sirius’s eye and James feels the impending doom of the answer.  
  
“Who knows, Sirius? Voldemort’s a lunatic… who knows…” Remus’s voice drifts off, lost in the din of laughing university students.  
  
“Well,” Lily says, pragmatically, “we have one. There can’t be that many more.”  
  
Sirius tapped his cigarette in the ashtray before him, grinding the ember out as if he could trap their concerns in the same way.  
  
  
 _April 28, 1981_  
  
It’s late.   
  
James sits at his empty kitchen table staring down a closed, golden locket.  
  
It’s strange to him, that this innocent piece of jewelry contains a living part of his mortal enemy’s soul. That knowledge drives him to dream of extremes: he longs to lunge for a kitchen knife and plunge the blade into the necklace until it screams for mercy; he wishes he could drown it in Harry’s bathwater. But, honestly, he doesn’t know how to destroy this piece of ugly jewelry, so it continues to sit benignly on the table.  
  
The floorboards creak as Sirius enters the kitchen. He’s dressed only in his pajama bottoms, his hair mussed and his neck baring evidence of Remus’s presence. He smiles grimly at James as he moves to the sink and picks a dirty glass at random. James wants to suggest that Sirius is too lazy to retrieve a clean vessel, but it’s too late and they’re in too deep to begin picking stupid fights. He watches Sirius turn the tap, fill the cup, and drink it down without pausing for breath.  
  
 _He loves Lily._  
  
The kitchen is silent, but James knows he’s heard it, a breathy whisper like a lover cooing in the middle of the night. His eyes travel around the room slowly, looking for the source. His eyes land on Sirius who is staring him down.  
  
“Prongs,” Sirius says hesitantly, “what did you just say?”  
  
James stares at Sirius for a long moment. “I didn’t say anything, Pads. I thought you said something—“  
  
 _He’s already moving into your home. He’s just that much closer to your wife._  
  
James blinks repeatedly. Sirius mirrors the behavior.  
  
“James,” Sirius begins and his concern is palpable in his tone, “did you hear that?”  
  
James licks his lips.  
  
 _He has no son of his own anymore. He wants Harry. He wants your life._  
  
“Sirius, what are you hearing—“ James begins, but Sirius is already talking.  
  
“You don’t really believe that about Moony… do you?” Sirius asks quietly, setting the water glass on the counter beside him.  
  
“No one has said anything about Moony,” James asserts, annoyed.  
  
Sirius stares at James levelly before he speaks.   
  
“I heard it suggest that you thought Remus was actually an animal… not a man,” Sirius begins, defensively.  
  
James glares. “No one spoke, Sirius,” he grumbles.  
  
Sirius looks at James without blinking. He then directs his attention to the tabletop. He cocks his head in confusion, then suggests, “When I lived with my parents, some objects talked; old, dark objects. They were innately evil—“  
  
 _Covering his tracks! He’s lying!_  
  
“—they lied in an attempt to turn us against one another. They convinced Reg that I was out to kill him—“  
  
 _You know this bastard. He would kill… he tried to kill an innocent boy when you were still in school. And he’s killed since then. And he’ll continue to kill to get what he wants…_  
  
“—and now we have an object from my house… right… here.”  
  
 _He wants your life. He’s always wanted to be you, you know. You saw it all through school; he moved into your family’s house, he became your parents’ other son; he did everything you did…_  
  
“James… can you hear me?”  
  
Sirius reaches through the haze that seems to be clouding James’s eyes and lifts the locket from the table. He seems to be struggling with it, as if he’s pulling a heavy weight through deep water. He has to use both hands to pick it up and open it.   
  
Once it’s open, the locket emits a high-frequency squeal, which attacks James’s inner-stag. Sirius yells—nearly a Padfootian whine-- and covers his ears with his hands, drawing back from the locket. The necklace falls onto the tabletop and hits with force. James stares, uncomprehendingly, at the dent in the wood under the locket.   
  
In James’s mind, Prongs rears up. He shakes, calling, no, _willing_ , for James to flee in self-defense, but his whole world is distorted. It’s as if the stag is being separated from the wizard. James has a hard time seeing through his mind’s fog.   
  
Somewhere far off, Sirius is yelling in pain, coiling in on himself and hugging his ears. Beyond him, a baby is crying and another man is wailing in pain as well. But all James can hear is the sultry voice that seems to come from nowhere.  
  
 _You must save your family. You must preserve what you love… because_ HE _will take it. Kill him! Protect your family!_  
  
James shakes his head, but he’s overwhelmed with an intense hatred. He swings around and glares at Sirius who is crumpled on the floor. He is still clinging to his ears. A thin stream of blood oozes out of his nose and across his top lip. Sirius, however, seems unaware.  
  
There is a stumbling behind him, but James is entirely focused on the newly-bred hate that swirls in his veins. He grinds his teeth and levels his wand at the man lying on the floor.  
  
“Bastard,” he growls.  
  
Visions swim around his head and he’s not sure if they’re in his mind or if they are actually hanging there, before him, like a cloud of steam.  
  
Sirius and Lily snuggled on the couch reading to Harry. Lily kissing Sirius on the forehead as they wake up in the morning together. Sirius’s hand straying up Lily’s skirt.  
  
“Fucking around with my wife, right under my nose,” James snarls.  
  
James is vaguely aware that someone is calling his name.  
  
“I thought… I thought we were brothers,” James calls, heartbroken. “How could you?”  
  
The high frequency pitch suddenly stops and James’s hate focuses even more. Sirius slumps on the floor, breathing deeply and groans as his hands fall away from his ears.  
  
“James?!”   
  
James turns slowly to the hysterical call of his name. Lily is standing in the doorway, tears flooding down her face; she looks frantic.  
  
“James! James!” she cries, reaching for him, but not moving toward him. “Don’t James! It’s not like that! I love you! Don’t! Please don’t!”  
  
Rage spikes again.  
  
“You are screwing him, aren’t you? You fucking little harlot.” James feels near tears. His emotions spike, alternating around him with hurricane force. He swings his wand back at Sirius and stumbles closer to him.  
  
His arm trembles as he grips his wand tighter.   
  
“Back down, Prongs,” Remus says. James starts at how steady his friend sounds.  
  
Remus is standing, between Lily and James with his wand trained on James’s heart. He’s only in his boxers, and, like Sirius, a drying thread of blood stains his nose and mouth. He’s fierce and solid, a force to be reckoned with.   
  
“He—he and Lily—they’ve betrayed me…” James whimpers, anger and grief warring with his response.  
  
“No they haven’t, Prongs. They’re both faithful. The Horocrux is controlling your mind, James. You need to block it out. You need to win; you have to win,” Remus reassures, his voice even and calm.  
  
James wipes at his eyes with his fist, anger rising again.   
  
“Sirius… Sirius is after my family!” James yells, hysterical.  
  
He rounds on Sirius again and points his wand down at the black haired man. Sirius is lying on his back, eyes now open, staring up at James. He lets his arms fall back, so that his palms lie facing the ceiling.   
  
“You _are_ my family, James,” Sirius whispers and James stumbles backward, muscles shaking and his breath hitching.  
  
“Destroy the Horocrux, James! Destroy it!” Remus commands in a yell, without lowering his wand.  
  
 _They’re all turning against you! All of them!_  
  
James directs his attention back to the table. He raises his wand at the locket. The open locket shudders. From its halves, a gust of wind looses and, with it, the shrill whistle resumes. Remus and Sirius react instantly, gripping their ears and howling in pain. Lily shoves past Remus, who folds at his middle.  
  
As she approaches, the locket produces an eerie green light that waves and splashes across her face.  
  
“Do it, James! Kill it! It’s destroying us! Kill it!” she cries hysterically.  
  
James tears his eyes from the locket to look at his wife. Her eyes stand out against the putrid green glow. He takes in her tear-tracked cheeks and her sleep-crimped hair. She’s standing in their kitchen wearing one of his old _Timothy Jarkins and the Witchhazel Band_ t-shirts and a pair of paisley panties. Her slender legs are covered in gooseflesh and battle scars. She is without her wand.  
  
“JAMES!” she screams, desperate.  
  
Suddenly, the green light molds and forms before their eyes. In the strange light, a skull materializes above her head. The skull’s mouth opens and a snake slithers free of the jaw. James blinks slowly. As if the snake itself is speaking, words form in the light.   
  
_Kill the bloodtraitor.  
Kill the half-breed.  
Kill the Mudblood._  
  
James blinks again. A chant begins in his brain. The words begin slowly and are clearly articulated.   
  
_Kill the bloodtraitor. Kill the half-breed. Kill the Mudblood._  
  
The chant grows louder and louder. The green light abandons the kitchen, invading the rest of the house. The shrill, piercing pitch stops, but the heavy light takes its place as torturer. It presses down. James’s limbs feel heavy and his lungs seem to be made of lead.  
  
The chant swirls around the kitchen, gaining speed until the words garble together. They spin around James faster and faster. The locket’s green beam begins destroying the walls of the house. It pours out of the plaster, tearing through it. It levitates Harry and Lily’s cat into the room. Harry’s hands are reaching, terrified, for his mother, but Lily will not look away from James.  
  
The spinning increases. The words scream louder, an ongoing howl of hatred that drowns out all other noise. Somewhere melting into the din, James hears Lily screaming. Remus calls to Sirius. Harry wails. The cat, Polly, yowls.   
  
They’re dying. All of them are dying.   
  
James raises his wand.  
  
“ _Avada Kedavra_.”


	13. Chapter Thirteen

_April 28, 1981_  
  
“Still you cannot see the Elysian Fields?” Voldemort sneers, exasperated, slamming his fist down onto the table.  
  
“I am trying my Lord!” Bellatrix returns, clasping her hands before her in a pleading manner.   
  
“I do not surround myself with the weak! Do it. Again. Now,” he commands, coldly.  
  
“I cannot, my Lord,” she cries, sinking to her knees with her hands clutching the Resurrection Stone. “I only see my dead family. But I do not control them; they are only miserable and beg for me to release them back to their rest in death!”  
  
“Then you are too weak.”  
  
“No, my Lord! I am a true believer!” she screams, sobbing and dragging her body across the frigid stone floor. Her long gray robe catches on the brittle rock and snags as she prostrates herself before Voldemort.  
  
He sneers at her.  
  
“You share blood with Black, do you not?” he asks, critically.  
  
“He is no relation of mine! He is a bloodtraitor! He turned against his name and his roots!” she howls, clawing at the floor to drag herself forward.  
  
“Regardless of your familial drama, you share the same blood. You share blood with the one who holds power over Hades itself. If you are true me to, bring forth the dead! I command you!” Voldemort roars, slinging his arm open and upsetting a candle.   
  
The candle tips end over end and lands harmlessly on the floor. Bellatrix grabs for it and holds the flame under her wrist.  
  
“On my life I do pledge that I am faithful,” she sobs, “I am trying my Lord, but I have failed you!”   
  
“It is a shame,” Voldemort sighs. “I do not forgive failure.”  
  
He raises his wand to punish her. Some of the other Death Eaters look away as she writhes and screams, but most have come to hunger for such violence and watch lustfully.  
  
 _April 29, 1981_  
  
Lily sits up in her bed, smoothing the coverlet under her palms. It’s hard to gauge time when one is confined to bed. Moments feel slow and Lily finds herself glancing at the clock in two-minute intervals. She’s bored.   
  
At first, she had wanted to ignore Sirius and his self-righteous “you must rest for you and Harry and the baby." But when she was the lightening-bolt shaped scar on Harry’s forehead, everything changed. Remus had tried to assure her that it was nothing – just a mark from a flying bit of crockery during the locket incident, but Lily was convinced. Shortly after, she was propped up in the spare room at Remus and Sirius’s house, reading one of Sirius’s old spy paperbacks.  
  
The book was predictable and had been discarded some time ago, and now, she’s trying to entertain herself by remembering all the ingredients that go into the Draught of Living Death. Was it a whole vial of viper’s venom or just an ounce? She thinks hard and casts her eyes about the cheery room in hopes of something that will spark her memory. Instead of finding her answer, she sees Harry.  
  
He is stretched out beside her with his arms above his head. The child sleeps like his father; he just stops activity and falls into a deep slumber. She watches as Harry’s nose twitches and his arms jerk in response. Lily reaches over and lays her palm on his little chest.  
  
Her son sighs and his body stills.   
  
Lily continues to watch him and then places the other palm on her pregnant middle.   
  
She had feared for her unborn child when James had become possessed. She had stood her ground, however, as James threatened Sirius and Dark magic had swirled around her. It physically lifted her son and ripped the roof off of her home. But she was made of sterner stuff and had waited until the man she loved, the man too stubborn to give up, had overcome.   
  
Her index finger flexes against the hard shield of her womb. A gentle pressure pushes back and she sighs in relief. Things will be all right, she promises herself and her unborn baby.  
  
There is a soft knock and the door to the room opens. Sirius enters wearing a tired smile and bearing a tray.   
  
“Hello, Mrs. Potter, and how are you this evening?” Sirius asks her, pureblood manners on display, posh accent in full effect.  
  
Lily smiles at his well timed lightheartedness and replies, “I am quite well, sir. Please could I bother you to carry a message to the proprietors of the estate?”  
  
Sirius nods, “It would be an honor. The owners of the Black-Lupin Manor are always looking for ways to make their guests’ stays more comfortable.”  
  
“Please send word to them that the sun in this room is simply too bright! I must have the sun realigned,” she teases, over-enunciating and generally acting silly. “Also, please find my husband and ask him to join me in the South parlor for brunch,” she continues, teasingly.  
  
Sirius looks concerned, a flicker of his actual emotion behind his own façade of silliness, “I am afraid that Mr. Potter is still… unresponsive.”  
  
Lily sighs. With such news she is unable to play her part any longer and, instead, motions to the tray, “what have you brought me, Sirius?”  
  
Sirius looks sad at the loss of the game and sets the tray down. “It’s time for your medicine, madam.”  
  
Lily grimaces, glaring at the mug Sirius hands her. “Not even a spoon full of sugar to help with the taste?”  
  
Sirius’s brow wrinkles in confusion. “Sugar would destroy the coagulating protein,” he says, befuddled.  
  
“It’s a Muggle thing,” Lily sighs, “don’t worry about it.”  
  
Sirius just nods and then pushes the mug toward her mouth.  
  
“Down the hatch,” Sirius says with a shit-eating grin.  
  
“This had better make my head feel better. Why is it you aren’t feeling the effects of that locket anyway?” she asks him as she takes a giant swig of the potion.  
  
“Grew up around Dark Magic; that little light show was nothing,” he replies, kneeling beside the bed and poking at her abdomen.  
  
“Do you mind?” she asks, annoyed. “First, you try to poison me,” she motions to the now-empty mug, “then you try to get me start retching. Do you not like me, Black?”  
  
Sirius levels a pointed look at her, “Evans, I am a second year Apothecary’s apprentice. If I wanted to poison you, I’d have done so. Instead, I’m looking after Squirt here,” he pats her middle affectionately.  
  
Lily feels lost for a moment and blinks dramatically. “Apothecary,” she breathes, the words sounding foreign to her.  
  
Sirius laughs hollowly. “I know. I forget that once we had a life outside this war.”  
  
She nods, momentarily lost. That’s right, she thinks, once Sirius had spent his days cutting, clipping, and stirring under Peter’s father’s tutelage. Once, Remus had reviewed restaurants. Once, she had studied to be a Muggle Relations Counselor. Once, her husband was an Auror and played Quidditch on one of the Ministry’s recreational teams.   
  
Those days seemed long since gone and she feels breathless at the loss.   
  
Sirius touches her wrist.  
  
“Lily,” he says gently, “I promise you, I will do the best that I can to give you that life back.”  
  
She doesn’t think she’ll be inhaling any time soon. His words pound home the threat of his possible demise. She meets his eyes and sorrow nearly overwhelms her.   
  
“I can’t lose any more of my family, Black,” she chokes out, feeling tears flooding her eyes.  
  
Sirius just nods and squeezes her hand.   
  
“I’m serious, Black,” she says sternly, “you might be set to do great things for all of us, but damn it, if you’re not planning to survive it, then Chosen One or not, you’d better turn in your badge for world saving. I will not lose my brother.”  
  
Sirius leans in and kisses her cheek.  
  
“I’ll do my best, Lily.”  
  
She sniffles and dabs her eye on the corner of the bed sheet. Sirius looks concerned, yet somehow baffled at the prospect of a crying female. He attempts some sort of comfort, however, and no matter now misguided, Lily is grateful.   
  
“You need to relax, Evans,” Sirius soothes, as he helps he lie down in the bed, “you and your daughter need lots of sleep.”  
  
Lily jerks back up and grabs him by the arm, “Daughter?” she asks in surprise.  
  
Sirius stares and then speaks doubtfully. “I thought Remus told me that you’d said it was a girl?”   
  
Lily laughs, feeling a lightness roll onto her. “You know, I think he’s right.” She touches her middle. “I haven’t even had time to think about it, but… she feels different than Harry did.”  
  
Sirius grins. “Well, she’s going to be beautiful and just as damn smart as her brother.”  
  
Lily feels a fresh awe fill her, the same sort of knowledge of love that flooded her the first time she’d felt Harry wiggle.   
  
“What will you call her?” Sirius asks, his voice lowering with his gentleness.  
  
“Maybe Jamie after her dad—“  
  
“No,” Sirius interrupts, sitting on the bedside. “You named Harry after him.”  
  
“Fine,” Lily says, taking on the prefect tone she used when she was acting smarter than him at Hogwarts. “What’s your middle name. Maybe I’ll name her after you!”  
  
Sirius wrinkles his nose. “Don’t you love your kid?”  
  
Lily laughs. “Fine, what’s Remus’s middle name?”  
  
She doesn’t miss the warm, happy glow that fills Sirius’s face.  
  
“John.”  
  
She hums thoughtfully, “Is there a female form to that?”  
  
Sirius nods, “I’m sure there is. John-nathena or something.”  
  
Lily lifts an eyebrow at him, “And you said I hated this baby.”  
  
Sirius grins cheekily and then squeezes her shoulder.  
  
“You need to rest, Lily. That was strong, Dark magic and Johnettea, or whoever she is, needs time to recoup—and so do you.”  
  
Lily nods and lies back on the pillows. She watches Sirius gather the empty mug and tray and walk toward the door.  
  
“Hey Evans,” he asks when he’s nearly there.  
  
“Mmm?” she hums, trying to find a comfortable nook in her pillow.  
  
“What’s your middle name?”  
  
She pauses and looks straight at him. “Ellen.”  
  
Sirius nods thoughtfully before speaking, “You named Harry from ‘Harold,’ right?”  
  
She nods in agreement.  
  
“Why not… I don’t know… ‘Ellie’ or something?”  
  
“Ellie,” Lily says softly, trying out the word. “Ellie Johanna Potter.”  
  
The words add softness to her tone and she looks back at Sirius with tear-shining eyes. He smiles affectionately and closes the door upon his exit.  
  
 _May 1, 1981_  
  
Remus paces the hallway of his home. He studies the dark wooden beams that line the ceiling and he runs his fingers along the bruised plaster walls. Many years ago, his grandfather had designed and built this house. It had housed generations of Lupins from that point on. There had been happy memories created in these walls. He had cherished the gift his mother had given he and Sirius when she bequeathed them this house. But now, he wants nothing more than to flee from it.   
  
He’d killed here. He’d murdered one of his best friends in the bedroom where he’d made love to Sirius countless times. And now that knowledge made it exceptionally hard to enter this house and, specifically, that room.  
  
He scans the door frame, looking for some sort of outward show of what he’s done, but he knows he’ll find none. Even if there had been a residue on the door, James would have cleaned it when they came to dispose of Peter’s body.  
  
At the thought of James, he abandons his sentry post and makes a sharp left and enters the room that James is currently occupying. He’s in the same position that Sirius had laid him down in nights before. He looks uncomfortable, like he’s hoping to squirm, just as soon as he awakes. Remus leans over his friend and touches his forehead.   
  
Still feverish.   
  
Remus sighs and drops onto the bed. The hopelessness of this entire situation weighs on him and he finds himself cradling his head in his hands. Possession by a Dark Object is something he knows a little about, but none of the texts he owns have been very helpful. So far, all he has known to do is order Sirius to brew and administer two vials of Drought of Peace and to ease James’s fever with ground dandelion root.  
  
The floor in the hallway groans and Remus lifts his head to see Sirius climbing the stairs. He pauses in the doorway and smiles sadly at his lover.  
  
“How is he?” Sirius asks, quietly.  
  
Remus manages a one armed shrug, but even that feels like too much effort. The floor heaves another sigh as Sirius enters into the bedroom. He settles onto the bed and pulls Remus to him. Remus can smell potion ingredients in the weave of his shirt—a vague hint of fluxweed seeds and maybe lemongrass. He leans into Sirius and closes his eyes.  
  
“Padfoot,” he murmurs, afraid to disturb the silence that the house is settling into, “there isn’t much written about Horocruxes.”  
  
“So you’ve told me,” Sirius whispers distractedly, while resting his lips against Remus’s forehead.  
  
“I don’t know if the Killing Curse would have destroyed it or not,” Remus continues, while winding an arm around Sirius’s middle. Sirius kisses his forehead.  
  
“We’ll figure it out, Moony,” Sirius breathes, ruffling Remus’s hair as he speaks. He inhales and kisses Remus’s forehead again.  
  
They lapse into silence with Remus leaning on his lover, and Sirius applying gentle kisses to Remus’s forehead. Remus sighs and closes his eyes. It’s peaceful. For a moment, he trusts himself to quit thinking and just rest.  
  
Then he feels Sirius tense and knows that a question is forming, “Remus,” Sirius whispers, not moving from his current position.  
  
Remus is afraid of ruining the moment, so he inclines his head just enough for Sirius to ascertain it is a nod.   
  
Sirius’s lips ghost across skin as he speaks. “What happened in our bedroom?”  
  
Remus tenses immediately, but Sirius holds him tighter and closer. Sirius continues to speak slowly and methodically.  
  
“You won’t sleep there. You’ve been in here claiming to watch Prongs, but, I’m not buying it, Remus. What happened in there?”  
  
Remus squeezes his eyes shut and wills himself to speak. He had promised himself that he would not speak to Sirius about this, but what choice does he have?  
  
“Peter is dead, Sirius,” he begins. His voice as taut as a coiled spring, conveying all the frustration and hurt he currently feels. He is surprised that his words are not dripping with guilt.   
  
“You killed him,” Sirius whispers, much in the same way he has been speaking, gentle and kind.   
  
The words are free of the accusation Remus has been preparing for. This is also not a question, so he lets his lack of objection answer his lover. The silence is tense for Remus, but Sirius just places another kiss on his brow.  
  
“I love you,” Sirius says, tender and truthful.  
  
Remus takes a shuddering breath and draws himself closer to Sirius, bowing his head under Sirius’s chin and burying his nose in Sirius’s shirt. Sirius holds him tighter.   
  
Remus expects more questions—how did it happen, or why our bedroom… but they do not come.  
  
“Remus,” Sirius says soothingly, “I really do.”  
  
Remus collapses at the affection pouring out of his lover’s words. He stretches back to see Sirius’s eyes and, instead, receives a kiss on his lips. There is a rough cough behind them and they both face James’s prone form. He coughs again and stretches.  
  
“We’ve all killed quite a few people at this point. What’s one more rat-faced Death Eater?” James rumbles, sounding ill.  
  
Sirius and Remus both stare at their friend, taking his visage in. James is squinting at them through fever-bright eyes. He rubs at his sweaty brow and then laughs darkly. When he next speaks, he sounds both humorless and broken, “Honestly, I think our friend Peter died a long time ago.”  
  
None of them say anything after that, but Remus reaches over and grabs James’s hand. The three friends are silent, just soaking in their companionship and grief over the loss of their dear friend Peter.  
  
 _May 2, 1981_  
  
“I can’t take much more of this!” James yells from his bedroom. “If I stay in this bed any longer I swear I will actually die of boredom!”   
  
Sirius sighs and rubs at his forehead.  
  
“Potter!” Lily yells in return, “Shut up!”  
  
Sirius blinks long and slow before returning to the text before him.  
  
“Lily, I can’t take it! I’m going mad!” James yells.  
  
“You’re going mad? You? I’ve been in this bed for twice as long as you!” she returns.  
  
There is a slight whimper from Harry and then he begins to scream. His cries mingle with his parents. Sirius lets his head fall into the pages of his book.   
  
“You’d think,” Remus announces as he rushes into Sirius’s office and shuts the door, “that they’d lower the volume. They do happen to be occupying the same room. And bed for that matter,” Remus adds thoughtfully.  
  
Sirius just groans. Remus shuffles into the office and drops into a parchment covered wing chair, sending scrolls and owl feathers scattering about the room. It’s early evening and the floor is lit by a dull gray light that makes Sirius look ashen and drawn.   
  
Remus glances about the office space, taking in the piles of parchments (filled in true Sirius fashion on any available surface), the abandoned owl cage, the texts on Dark Objects and Greek mythology, and the prophecy that Sirius painted on the wall. Remus stares at the words for a very long time, unable to force himself to make any sound louder than his breathing.  
  
Beyond the door, he can hear Harry’s wails and the beginnings of a spectacular row between the Potters, but in this office, there is only him, Sirius, and the insurmountable truth that either Sirius or his foe will die.   
  
“It might be years yet,” Sirius says, wearily, as if he can read Remus’s thoughts.  
  
“Will it?” Remus asks, carefully, facing his lover.  
  
Sirius meets his gaze for a moment before looking beyond Remus to the prophecy’s prominent display.   
  
“I don’t think he will wait much longer. He keeps leaving us things that should have brought us to him long ago—“   
  
Remus interrupts him with an abrupt laugh. “Sirius,” he begins, hoarsely, “He had you as his prisoner. I’d say his plans worked.”  
  
Sirius sighs and stands up so quickly that his chair teeters, as if to fall over. He strides across the room confidently, his boots crunching on parchment and broken quills. He stands directly in front of Remus’s chair and leans over his lover with his hands braced on the arms of the chair.  
  
“Don’t you ever say that, Lupin,” Sirius states, steel in his voice. “Don’t you ever say he’s gotten what he wants or that he’s won.”  
  
Remus is startled at the degree of passion in Sirius’s voice when he speaks. Upon looking in the man’s eyes, Remus can see conviction and, possibly, a hint of desperation. He moves to speak, but Sirius begins again, softly and nearly broken.  
  
“I can’t do this, Moony—I can’t—if you don’t believe that I can do it,” he whispers.  
  
Remus convicted, reaches up and grips Sirius by the chin. “It’s a good thing, then, that I know you will do it.”


	14. Chapter Fourteen

_May 4, 1981_  
  
“This is bloody stupid, Pads,” James growls from beneath the Invisibility Cloak.  
  
Sirius just shakes his head no and continues to smoke his cigarette slowly. Remus shifts his weight from one foot to the other.   
  
“I hate Polyjuice,” Remus grumbles, looking around the silent square.  
  
Though James is completely unseen, Sirius and Remus have been transformed into two middle-aged Muggles. They stand in next to the World War I memorial in the center of a shopping area, pretending to watch the sluggish pace of shoppers mulling about the square. Sirius, older, shorter, and wider than usual, leans against the stone wall, ignoring the list of names of the Dead itching at his back. Remus, also a portly British man, scuffs his boot across a cobblestone before suddenly reaching forward and snagging Sirius’s fag and sticking it between his lips.  
  
Sirius stares at him blankly.  
  
“You don’t smoke,” Sirius says, uncertain.  
  
“Do today,” Remus replies, his usual gravelly voice now velveted with his current facade.  
  
“You worried?” Sirius asks, the edges of weariness sneaking into his tone.  
  
“I don’t know, Sirius,” Remus growls, annoyed and sarcastic, “you’re the most wanted man in the whole damn nation. In fact, you were captured recently and several of our friends died to save your sorry arse, oh, and Prongs was inhabited by a Dark Object this week and not actually able to stand on his own two feet for more than, say, ten minute—“ James moves to protest, but Remus is in a full fledged rant, “but you just had to agree to meet with your cousin—the wife of a known Death Eater, may I remind you—because she ‘sounded _sad_.’ Forgive me, Padfoot, but I think you’re an idiot.”  
  
Remus sucks down the cigarette as if he’s desperate for its comfort. Sirius just stares at him guiltily. James sighs. This is not a good plan.   
  
Then there is the echoing click of high-heeled boots on cobblestones and, from a shadowy archway between leaning shops, Narcissa Malfoy hesitantly steps out. She looks all around the square, taking in the two men next to the Memorial, the old woman by the haberdashery, and the pigeons pecking at the ground next to the café. She approaches the Marauders slowly.  
  
“Sirius?” she whispers, when she’s several feet closer to the Memorial and the men.  
  
Sirius straightens. “When we were five, Bella took your cat and hung it from…” he lets his voice trail off, allowing her to prove herself.  
  
“…the tree outside Regulus’s bedroom. She said it would teach us not to be Bloodtraitors but here we all are… all exactly that.”  
  
Once James is assured that Remus is checking Narcissa for assorted spells, he scans the perimeter from under his cloak for spies. She is definitely hiding something in the folds of her cloak and all three men are on guard. Then the thing under her cloak wails.   
  
It is a child.  
  
Narcissa spins around, inspecting the square for unfriendly eyes and ears, visibly terrified. She begins speaking before she has completed her inspection. Her voice trembles and breaks as she brings the men up to speed.  
  
“Lucius is dead. He offended the Dark Lord and he was killed for his insolence.”  
  
“Why?” Sirius asks, without missing a beat.  
  
“The Dark Lord is hunting for a blood connection to you,” Narcissa whispers, stepping closer to the Memorial and clutching the child closer to her under the folds of her cloak. “My sister has failed and the Dark Lord is angry. Bella insisted that Draco—our heir—be handed over to our Lord for his ‘special purpose.’ Lucius refused. He said that Draco’s blood was untainted and that Bella was a closer match to you. The Dark Lord… he… just killed him. In front of me. And I… I couldn’t give them my son as well.” She is drained of all emotion, but a desperation blazes in her eyes.  
  
“I have nothing left, Sirius. There aren’t any Blacks left from our generation, just you and I—“  
  
“And Andromeda,” Sirius replies gently.  
  
Narcissa blinks, long and slow.  
  
“I should have gone to her,” she whispers. “She has been dead to me for so many years…I just… I didn’t think of her. I have heard the Dark Lord speak of you so often… I came to you immediately.”  
  
Remus takes a long look at Narcissa, before he flips the remains of his cigarette to the ground and smashes it beneath the toe of his boot.  
  
“And what would you have done when you’d appealed to your long-dead sister?” he asks carefully, his words catching on the strange burr of the borrowed voice.  
  
Narcissa stares at him and then glances back at Sirius, as if to insure that this second man is safe to speak to. Her tongue darts out of her prim mouth and wets her lips. She shifts her weight awkwardly. Sirius simply stares at her. She blinks at him, her pleas written in her eyes. The frightened woman takes a shaky breath and begins to speak.  
  
“I need to leave my son somewhere safe,” she begs, pulling back the black velvet folds of her cloak. Beneath the shadows of the fabric, a squirming blond babe kicks his long legs. He blinks pale eyes at the three Marauders and smiles brightly.  
  
Narcissa shifts him closer again to cradle him at her breast.   
  
“I’ve lost every baby but Draco. Now I’ve lost my sister to her insanity and my husband to his foolish connections—“  
  
“How do we know we can trust you?” Remus asks, interrupting and not really phrasing this as a question.  
  
The blonde woman trembles and squeezes her eyes shut from the force of her emotions.  
  
“We’re blood,” she begs her cousin without opening her eyes to look at him.  
  
“I haven’t been a blood relation to you since I was sixteen,” Sirius replies coldly, undeterred from her plea.  
  
James stares at Sirius. If Sirius really believed that, then why are they meeting this woman in this cold square? Sirius does not look away from her, just blinks slowly, waiting for her reaction.  
  
“I need protection from the Dark Lord,” she cries out, loudly. Remus tenses and looks all about the square. A few pigeons are staring at them, but no one else seems to have taken notice of their conference.   
  
Narcissa brings a dainty hand up to her mouth and casts her eyes at the ground. She gasps and then squeezes her eyes shut.  
  
“Father always said that when you are in trouble you go to family. I couldn’t go to Andromeda—she has a child. Bella is being… punished by the Dark Lord. She is of no help to me; she’d have turned me over to him instantly. You are blood—whether any of us wanted to admit it years ago or not. I am begging for your protection of my son. Please,” her plea drops off to a pitiful, soft whisper. She does not look away from Sirius, but her shoulders hunch a fraction of an inch forward.  
  
“I will not entrust you, Madam Malfoy, wife of a _Death Eater_ , with the Savior of the Wizarding World. Forgive me, but you aren’t going to appeal to him for your safety,” Remus says primly. There is a sharp edge to his platitudes, a knife wielded by a polite citizen. “You may appeal to me.”  
  
“Easy, Moony,” Sirius soothes, but Remus does not waver.  
  
Narcissa uses her tiny thumb to wipe at the base of her nose and then reaches into her cape to retrieve a handkerchief, just as her fingers grasp the silken cloth, however, inspiration strikes her and it falls to the ground gracefully.  
  
“I will… I can… _the notebook_!” she whispers, practically to herself. Her eyes flash open and a brutal honesty shines there.   
  
She drops to her knees on the cobblestones and grabs a handful of Sirius’s trouser leg. James looks quickly about the square to insure no one sees this woman and her dramatic pleading.   
  
“The Dark Lord is practicing the oldest of magics. He seeks immortality and he… I will get you what he has created. He entrusted it to my husband and has not come to reclaim it—“  
  
Remus’s eyes light with sudden understanding. He catches Sirius’s eye and a look of agreement passes between them both.  
  
“Go and get it now, Cissy,” Sirius commands gently, leaning down to meet her face. “Hurry. Don’t let anyone know you have it. Please, Cissy. I will protect you and your son—“  
  
“—just Draco, Cousin. Please just my son, please protect him—“   
  
“—you, Cousin, _and_ your Draco. Now, hurry, before Bella turns on you.”  
  
She struggles to stand on the uneven ground without using her hands, but finally rises up and blinks rapidly.   
  
“Give me an hour. Meet me—“  
  
“—At the entrance to Platform 9 and ¾, just outside,“ Remus interrupts. “Madam Malfoy, you have an hour.”  
  
She nods and hurries back the way she came, heels clattering on the stone. The three Marauders watch her depart silently.  
  
“If she’s telling the truth—“ James begins.  
  
“I think she is,” Remus continues.  
  
“Then that’s one more we’ve found,” Sirius finishes.   
  
The three men apparate away without another word.   
  
  
  
_One hour later_  
  
“I can’t believe you had us meet them here,” Lily hisses from beneath the Invisibility Cloak.   
  
James shakes his head, “Remus set up the meeting, not me, Love.”   
  
Lily mutters something about stupidity and testosterone and werewolves that makes Harry giggle. Lily shushes him and James hears a soft swish as she rocks her son back and forth.   
  
The combination of the cold and the sound triggers a memory and James’s mind wanders from the task at hand. He thinks briefly of his earliest memory, hugged by his father as they snuck into his mother’s hospital room from beneath that cloak.   
  
“This belonged to Death himself,” his father had said, as they three snuggled around his Mum. “It has kept many Potters hidden from the Lord of Hades. Now, we’ll just wait.”  
  
And they tucked the shiny fabric around the three of them and they rested. James remembers knowing that as long as they hid there, they were concealed from everyone. Even Thantos.   
  
He wonders if his son will grow up remembering this moment: being safely cuddled into his mother’s breast, while watching the wonders of a Muggle train station through an invisible veil. It’s a beautiful thought.   
  
Regardless, James wishes that both of them—well, all of them really—were home safely. Sirius has ordered Lily to bed rest and, although she still disputes its need at times, James agrees with the prognosis.   
  
They don’t have much of a choice, however. With the exception of Moody, Sirius no longer trusts the Order. After Sirius was freed from Azkaban, the numbers of Order dwindled—many died on those haunted shores and, upon the return to mainland, others fled. The few remaining are virtually unknown to the Marauders’ clan and Sirius has rarely trusted the unknown.  
  
Though Remus had fought to include Mad-Eye in this particular adventure, Sirius had remained adamant that no one else know about the Horcruxes. No one liked that rule, but there wasn’t much they could do about it now. Sirius claims they are but hours outside of _something_ —he says the Dead are restless, as if those who have passed before know that violence is near. While it unnerves all of them to know that Sirius is aware of the Dead’s emotions, even without the Ring, they all know that it is best to act while they still can.   
  
James pushes these uneasy thoughts aside with a shiver and scans the sparse crowd. Sitting on a bench across from the Potters is Remus, who flips through an abandoned paper. Padfoot, on a lead like a civilized dog, sits panting at Remus’s feet.   
  
“She’s late,” Lily grumbles from behind James.   
  
“Obviously,” he replies, rubbing at his Polyjuice-provided mustache.   
  
The train station is drafty and cold. It’s made entirely of cement and stone. And while it lodges absolutely no heat, scrawny sparrows and foul pigeons find it makes a fine abode. A small flock of overfed pigeons flutter to the stone floor before James. He kicks at them, but the birds, who are well acquainted with such behavior, simply shuffle away on their knobby legs.  
  
“Burd!” Harry cries loudly, and James shuffles his weight uncomfortably. “Burd! Burd!”   
  
“Yes, darling,” Lily whispers, shushing the boy.   
  
Padfoot and Remus stare at James across the square. Intelligent canine eyes blinks in concern. James nods curtly. If the dog and his master can hear Harry from across a station, anyone can hear him.   
  
“Lily,” James begins, faking a cough into his hand, “You better go. You’re going to attract attention.”  
  
“What, and leave the party now? The show is about to start; isn’t that her?” Lily asks, already knowing the answer. James tries to discretely scan the train station.  
  
Narcissa is hurrying across the concourse, glancing over her shoulder from time to time in fear.  
  
“She’s being followed,” James announces, moving at a strong stride to intercept her. He hears Lily’s boots striking the ground as she hurries at his side.  
  
Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Remus and Padfoot standing and walking very nonchalantly toward them. They are triangulating on Madam Malfoy.   
  
Once they are nearly at arm’s length, Narcissa practically jumps at James.  
  
“Sirius?” she whispers fiercely.  
  
“In our second year, you turned me into a carrot,” James says quickly, looking past her in concern.  
  
“Potter?” Narcissa asks incredulously.  
  
“James,” Lily says, breathlessly, the way she speaks when she’s too worried to focus her speech, “Avery and Title are headed this way.” Narcissa looks, alarmed, in Lily’s direction.  
  
“You remember Lily Evans?” James asks, in an attempt to explain the bodyless voice.  
  
“Wonderful,” Narcissa replies in a tone that suggests she would be pleasant if she weren’t running for her life. “I’m glad that there’s more than one of you, as I think Roger is with them,” Narcissa whispers, terror coloring her words.  
  
“Rookwood?” James asks, watching to see Sirius slip behind a column and transform. Remus looks alarmed that Sirius is out in the open without a disguise, but there simply isn’t time to transfigure him one.  
  
“I’m sorry,” Narcissa cries, “I knew they would tail me the moment Bella saw me in Lucius’s office, but I couldn’t lose them. I tried… but by then I was out of time.”  
  
“It’s all right,” Lily soothes.  
  
James realizes how little time there is and his voice turns commanding, “I need the notebook.”  
  
Narcissa’s eyes blaze. She’s in familiar territory, bargaining to get what she wants. “Protect Draco.”  
  
“Narcissa,” Lily hisses, seeing Remus step out into the concourse to block Avery’s path. “Make the swap at the same time. The password is your son’s name.”  
  
Narcissa glances at the space where Lily would be and her face screams indecision. James hears the swish of the cloak, suggesting that Lily is ready to grab for Narcissa should she choose to run.  
  
James looks again and sees that Sirius has stepped to Remus’s side. He snaps his attention back to the blonde woman before him.  
  
“I don’t have time to negotiate with you,” he holds out an inkwell to her. “Give me the notebook and get out of here. I don’t want Muggles lost in the crossfire of a duel.”  
  
For a split second, James thinks that she is going to simply take the Portkey and run without the swap, but then a sad looking notebook is tossed from beneath her velvet cloak and a petite, white hand grabs the ink well.  
  
“Thank you,” she whispers and disappears.  
  
Remus is preparing to engage Rookwood. There clearly isn’t even time for James or Lily to deal with the gasping Muggles calling something about a vanishing woman. Instead, James shoves the notebook at his wife and commands, “Apparate, now!”  
  
“But there are about to be hexes flying!” she cries, attempting to protect the Muggles. Her voice sounds muffled as if she is looking at Harry in concern as she speaks.  
  
“You think I don’t know that? The longer you stay the longer it will take me to get this lot onto our platform and away from them!” James yells, locking his eyes on the other two Marauders ahead of him.   
  
He should be joining them to fight, but in his vows said he’d protect her until Death parted them. James feels her indecision weighting in the air. He begins to beg her, but then there is a satisfying pop! as she leaves his side. Without hesitation, he begins to run toward his friends.  
  
Remus is putting himself between Sirius and the advancing Avery, when James reaches them. A shot of green launches over James shoulder and he ducks low.   
  
“Shit!” he hisses.  
  
Remus and Sirius are backpedaling until they are shoulder-to-shoulder with James.  
  
“Lily?” Sirius asks, jerking about looking for the invisible Lily.  
  
“Gone!” James yells in return, while firing off a Blinding Hex. The three retreat and hide behind a rubbish bin.   
  
“We’ve got to get them through Platform 9 ¾ ,” he continues in concern as Avery’s return fire goes wide and takes out a corner of brick.   
  
Sirius just grins like a maniac. James and Remus stare at him; both men see the rebellious boy they knew in Hogwarts. It isn’t until that moment that James is aware just how much this whole situation is weighing on Sirius.   
  
He’s seen flashes, of course. He could even pinpoint a few moments: the lost look in Sirius’s eyes when he was exiled, the countless empty firewhiskey bottles that marked Neville’s death, the hollow laugh that Sirius used after Remus left. At these points Sirius looked more like his aged and dying father than his own mischievous Gryffindor self. And, yet, here in the midst of flying hexes, Sirius is clearly himself—Padfoot the Marauder.  
  
“Ready, Prongs? Moony?” Sirius asks, a roguish glimmer in his eyes.  
  
Remus nods sharply, as if his voice is lost in this moment.   
  
“On the count of three,” James begins, for the first time in months he is back in charge of their little legion, not Sirius. “One…”  
  
But he should have remembered that Sirius rarely waited for the count, even back in Hogwarts.   
  
“Close enough!” Sirius yells as he ducks out from behind the bin.  
  
“I do love that man,” Remus chuckles, running after Sirius with his wand leveled on Avery.  
  
“Idiots,” James mutters before challenging Title.  
  
Hexes scream through the air, slamming into stone pillars and a nearby flower cart. There is a certain beauty in magic, James thinks, parrying Title’s curse. The colors wind and dance across the sky and reflect off the stones and glass. A duel holds deadly splendor. At the speed that the two sides of men are throwing spells, the colors are mesmerizing. All around them, Muggles scream and run in fear. Even with the noise of pounding feet and cries of horror, the Marauders are focused.  
  
For a split second, James could imagine that they are actually in a back hallway of school, hexing their Slytherin classmates instead of fighting for their lives. At his side are his two best friends, each grinning madly and fighting with the finesse that their years of ruling their school and fighting this war have brought them. Remus, Sirius, and James—all graceful and fluid when dueling. He glances over and sees that both of his friends are enjoying the challenge as much as he is. No surprise really, he thinks, there is a level of fun even now.   
  
“You realize that the International Statue of Secrecy is dissolving around us every second we curse them, don’t you?” Remus asks in a mildly amused tone.  
  
“It was bound to happen,” Sirius replies. “Stupid rule anyway.”  
  
James snorts a laugh before he dodges left to avoid an on-coming curse.   
  
“Shall we take this through the barrier, gentlemen?” he asks, with a slight bow in the direction he hopes to move the battle.   
  
“After you, Prongs,” Remus says graciously, firing off a Bone Splintering Curse.  
  
The man on the receiving end doesn’t deflect it quickly enough and screams out in pain. James grins at Remus.  
  
“Nice shot, Moony!” James then turns and runs toward Platform 9 ¾.   
  
He hears Sirius yell a warning. James jerks back toward the duel, spinning at his hips with his wand drawn into his side in preparation to defend himself.   
  
The curse is a bold and bright orange, spinning through the air in perfect rotation. Remus moves and casts a Redirection Jinx at the spell, but it only serves to aim the projection of the spell lower.   
  
The spell collides. James howls in pain as his knee explodes in pain. The world around him drops past in a blur. He clutches his wand desperately and forces his eyes open. His eyes water and he yells out in pain again.  
  
Remus runs toward him, sliding across the stones on his knees and grabbing James by the shoulders. He yanks James into a sitting position and begins to chant and wave his wand across James’s leg. The ache dulls, but only for a second, before arcs of excruciating pain shoot back up from his knee.  
  
Behind Remus, James can see Sirius standing defensively before them casting spell after spell at their attackers.   
  
“Hang in there, Prongs. Just hold on, we’re almost out of here,” Remus whispers and James tries to concentrate on what Remus is saying. Besides the pain, the only thing that he can grasp is that Remus Lupin is crying.  
  
There is something wrong with that, but James’s thoughts are so cloudy that he can’t focus.   
  
“Remus!” Sirius yells and Remus looks back at his lover. “Ready?”  
  
“I can’t!” Remus replies, voice breaking.   
  
James feels alarmed, but still too foggy to understand why.  
  
“Get the fuck out of here. They’re trying to bring the roof down! Go!” Sirius yells, panicking.  
  
“I can’t… I can’t…” Remus chants, apparently losing his control.  
  
Sirius deflects another two spells and casts something else before his anger overtakes him.  
  
“Fuck it all!” he growls, and runs forward. “ _Avada Kedavra!_ ” he screams.  
  
His words echo hollowly through the terminal, bouncing off the empty station. With them comes a deep rumbling.   
  
There is a roar in James’s ears and for a moment he worries that he is losing consciousness. Then he feels Remus shift and glance all around him quickly.  
  
“What the fuck?” Remus cries, alarmed.   
  
The noise rushes past Remus and James. It seems to overwhelm Sirius, forcing him to sway on his feet. The clamor appears to gather around Sirius’s curse; it stops midair. The curse gains strength and noise. James blinks through his pain, trying to focus—it’s not possible for a spell to slow down… yet, _it is_.  
  
The three Death Eaters look alarmed and then begin to run away, but the spell shoots forward and lunges at all three men at once. They fall down dead. A moment later, their bodies dissolve into ash. A strong wind blows through the terminal and scatters their bodies across the stones.  
  
Remus stares. James moans in pain. Sirius holds his wand before him in wonder.  
  
“Padfoot,” Remus chokes, “we have to get James to someone who can help.”  
  
Sirius turns around to face them, while still staring at his wand. His eyes lift and focus on his two friends. His eyes travel down James’s body and his face falls.  
  
“Oh, shit,” he whispers.  
  
James struggles to sit up, but Remus tries to force him to stay still. James fights at his friend’s hold and his eyes lock on his lower body. His right leg is gone from the knee down.  
  
“Oh, shit,” James repeats, and passes out.

_May 4, 1981_  
  
Lily tosses in her bed. She’s trying very hard to keep from hyperventilating.   
  
When Remus had owled the coordinates to the Hogwarts Founder’s Artifact Museum in Stratford, she’d been wary. The plan had been for the boys to distract the Death Eaters and then meet her at a café in Birmingham. After an hour of waiting, she’d finally received word from them.  
  
She wouldn’t have come if the message hadn’t contained the special code the Marauders created before Sirius was exiled. James had found the Biblical allusions clever and she had appreciated the rereading of the Song of Solomon. In hind sight, she never excepted the language found there to be twisted into the horrible messages it had. Not five months ago, she remembered speaking to Sirius and Remus through the mirrors in such code about James’s disappearance. The situation is now changed and she believes that Remus’s words will stay with her to her grave.   
_  
Lily Among Thorns,  
The young stag may not dance at the wedding feast. I, a warrior of Zion, plead with you to avoid the snares of the Prince of Darkness and come to us directly. Bring the youngest of deer. Our Shepard requests willow bark, cherry wood, bicorn powder, and gruphorn weed. Speed and peace, Daughter of Zion._  
  
  
Andromeda Tonks had met her at the entrance and tugged her into the building, looking behind them the entire time.  
  
“Your husband is badly wounded,” Andromeda had whispered and Lily’s knees had buckled.   
  
Andromeda and Nymphadora had helped Lily to a makeshift bed and had forced her to rest. Dora had entertained Harry. Andromeda assured her that they were all safe. Regardless of this comfort, Andromeda made her daughter and Harry stay very close. Andromeda took up a watch at the foot of Lily’s bed, wand in hand the entire time.  
  
Hours pass. Dora is taking her child minding duties very seriously—as every seven-year-old does—and helps Harry get ready for his nap. Lily feels a rush of gratitude flood her. This quickly falls away as Remus, robe stained crimson, hunched in defeat, comes to see her. He falls to his knees beside her bed, grabs her hand, and squeezes her fingers almost painfully.  
  
“Ted was the only trustworthy Healer we knew,” he whispers, his voice is broken and hoarser than usual. “He and Sirius are re-growing James’s leg right now.”  
  
“His… his leg?” Lily cries, bringing their joined hands to her mouth in horror.  
  
“He’s all right, Lily. He’s alive. He’s okay,” Remus chants, as if this is the mantra he himself has been clinging to.  
  
Lily just nods emphatically, tears slipping from her eyes. Remus looks over to Harry and palms the boy’s head in his hand. He strokes Harry’s wild hair, tenderly.   
  
“Your Daddy is just fine, kiddo,” he whispers, brokenly. “Just fine.”  
  
Remus lets go of his tears then and sobs openly. He drops his head onto the bed next to Lily’s thigh, gasping deep, shattered breaths. She clings to his hand and cries along with him.   
  
The night passes.  
  
 _May 5, 1981_  
  
Sirius Black is a strong man by nature.   
  
In spite of this, he is not immune to feelings.   
  
He sits side-by-side with his cousin Andromeda in silence.   
  
Dawn is nearing, and the world is foggy and gray outside the window. He cannot concentrate on that world, however. Instead, he stares at his hands and how the pale light makes his hands look more innocent than they are.  
  
“We’re in Shakespeare country,” Andromeda says softly, watching him from behind a veil of black hair.  
  
Sirius just nods and continues to memorize the lines of his palms.  
  
“In one of his plays, a character went insane after she swore that she could never clean the blood from her hands,” Andromeda’s voice is much like the fog, wispy and fleeting in volume. She brushes several strains of her hair behind her ear and continues, “Unlike Lady Macbeth, Cousin, you did not murder anyone.”  
  
Sirius shakes his head slowly, his own hair tumbling into his eyes. “I have, Cousin. I will again.”  
  
Andromeda reaches over and rests her small hand on his shoulder. “And I will be grateful. Without you, Sirius, my daughter will not understand freedom.”  
  
Sirius’s shoulders slump and he leans against his cousin’s side. “What if I fail?” he whispers, frightened.  
  
Andromeda reaches up and strokes his hair. “When you were little, do you remember how you let Cissy and I play with your hair?”  
  
Sirius shifts and stares at her balefully. “I’m worrying about the murders I’ve committed and about dying and you want to talk about our childhood? Forgive me, Andy, but—“  
  
“Shh,” his cousin soothes, touching his hair in a comforting fashion. “Listen, Sirius. Just listen.”  
  
Sirius stares at her with haunted eyes before he leans against her again, ready to hear her words.   
  
“Once, after Bella went to school, you and Reg came to visit. Cissy wanted to make you pretty and I decided that sounded fun. You sat so very still and let us braid and curl and primp you until you looked like some young man from the seventeenth century.   
  
Your father came to collect you early and threw a fit. Claimed that he would not have the heir of the House of Black becoming a vain fashion plate. You took it all in stride. Years later, however, Cissy taunted you with that story in front of your entire year. You were humiliated. You were furious. The situation had changed and so did your perception on the moment.”  
  
Sirius takes a series of deep breaths, letting his cousin’s gentle voice and tender words pour over him, bandaging the horrors of the night.   
  
“Cousin,” she says, her tone becoming more pressing, “Life is all about perceptive. You may see yourself as a murderer, but I see you as a hero. You have saved many lives by your actions yesterday.”  
  
Sirius pulls away from her side again and faces her. His brow is knit in confusion.  
  
“They are beginning to hunt Muggle-borns, Sirius,” she whispers, terror mirrored in her eyes. “They will kill Ted if they find him.”  
  
Sirius takes her words in, weighing them in his heart. He shudders.  
  
“I don’t want to lose any more of my family,” he confides to her, his voice dispirited. “I almost lost my brother last night. And then I endangered your family by bringing him here.”  
  
“Hush,” she commands, hugging him back to her side. “We’re family. That’s why we’re here, right? Because you tried to save my sister?”  
  
Sirius chuckles darkly. “Indeed.”  
  
Andromeda nods understandingly, before looking back out into the swirling fog.   
  
“She gave Lily a notebook,” Andromeda inquires.  
  
“Yeah,” Sirius replies, rubbing his face with both hands.  
  
“What is it?” his cousin prods.  
  
Sirius looks her in the face over the tips of his fingers.   
  
“World domination tips? Old family recipes?” Andromeda guesses, teasingly.  
  
“Oh, what the hell could it hurt,” Sirius decides aloud and sets about explaining the inner workings of the Dark Lord’s plan for immortality.  
  
Andromeda takes in his words with a keen look in her eyes. She waits until he has been silent for some time before she speaks. Before she opens her mouth, however, Sirius knows she has an idea.  
  
“Cousin,” she begins, “you said that locket had an ‘s’ on its front?”  
  
Sirius nods, feeling the night’s events beginning to weigh on him again.  
  
“As in ‘Slytherin’?” she asks, with building excitement.  
  
Sirius stares at her blankly. “I suppose. But that doesn’t make much sense—“  
  
“—like hell it doesn’t!” Andromeda yells, jumping to her feet. “You-Know-Who wants control of all of Wizarding society, right?”  
  
Sirius blinks and answers her slowly, “That about sums it up, I’d say.”  
  
“And what is the one equalizing factor for all wizards?” she asks again, bouncing on the balls of her feet.  
  
“Magic.”  
  
“And?”  
  
“A wand.”  
  
“And? Think, Black!”  
  
“How to use that wand?”  
  
“Exactly! He’s trying to show that he controls the cornerstones of all of the Wizarding world, Cousin!”  
  
Suddenly, Sirius is very awake.  
  
“If the locket was Slytherin’s, do you think he’s trying to have a piece of every Founder?” he asks, focused on her face.  
  
“Yes, yes I do. And I have something that might interest you, Savior of the Wizarding World,” she calls over her shoulder as she runs from the storage room and into the museum proper.  
  
Sirius leaps to his feet and chases after her, dodging the showcase boxes in the darkened room. Andromeda has lit her wand and is running from one case to the next, in search of something.  
  
“Here!” she yells, already tapping the glass with her wand as Sirius approaches her side. “It’s the special collection. No one but the curator of the museum may touch them. Lucky for you, I happen to be such a girl.”  
  
In the case there are a handful of items: set of cutlery with snakes engraved in the handle, an engraved golden tea cup that holds the depiction of a badger, an inkwell shaped like a lion, and a diary with a raven seal on its cover. Sirius stares at them all as his cousin puts her hand into the case.  
  
“Founder’s belongings?” he guesses, watching her pull the items out one-by-one.  
  
“Yes, and if we’re lucky—“  
  
Sirius interrupts her by raising his wand at the four objects and speaking in a stern and loud voice, “I will destroy you, Voldemort.”  
  
The silverware, inkwell, and diary remain silent, but the cup shifts toward Sirius and growls.  
  
“You cannot defeat me. Your magic is vague and immature when faced with mine—“  
  
Sirius grabs the cup and shoves it into his robe pocket.  
  
“Spectacular, Andy. Thank you for letting me see this fine and special collection,” he gushes sarcastically.   
  
She smiles at him. “Go get ‘em, tiger.”  
  
“Forgive me, Cousin, but I am a _lion_ , not a tiger.”  
  
“Yes, Sirius, that you are.”


	15. Chapter Fifteen

_10:17 p.m. May 10, 1981_  
The diary is yellow and its pages abused. Remus sits, watching it by the hour. He finds that it’s an amazing article of magic; it can draw ink from other pieces of paper to fill its blank pages. It can open and close its own cover. It can even display images of Tom Riddle’s life like photographs in a scrapbook.   
  
He sits here because someone must watch this artifact. It gives him purpose now. Also, as much as he hates to admit it, the new additions to his house have made the space cramped. The Tonks family had no where else to run, of course, but the three of them, plus the Potters, take away even more of his quiet spaces. So Remus retreats to his office and cites Order duties. No one accuses him of hiding.  
  
Sirius has constantly imposed on his solitude. There is a stack of empty dishes on the edge of his desk, evidence that Sirius has wanted him to eat. There is a rather silly but romantic note scribbled onto a napkin. While Remus has wanted space, Sirius has wanted him. That much is apparent. Remus feels only a little guilt for ignoring the backrubs and cups of tea. Someone must understand the Horcrux if they are to win this damn war.  
  
Remus inks his quill and scribbles down his observations. He notes the handwriting and the rate that the ink absorbs into the pages. The book has successfully preserved some of Riddle’s brilliance. The diary knows that it is in danger here and is fighting to convince Remus to side with him. As Remus dips his quill again, the diary begins to suck the ink toward itself.  
  
Remus watches, in a detached awe, as his words slide off his parchment and form rivets of ink that run into the pages of Riddle’s diary. The diary’s pages flip again and again with a soft, soothing sound before landing somewhere in the middle. The ink climbs the pages and smoothes into elegantly written words. Remus glances at them, bored, before returning to his observations. The diary turns to a new page in annoyance.  
  
The floorboards near the door creak.  
  
“What is it doing?” Sirius asks, eyeing the diary’s flapping pages as he enters Remus’ office.  
  
“Trying to convince me to write it. It claims it’s lonely,” Remus snorts in amusement.  
  
“Don’t,” Sirius whispers, concerned.  
  
Standing, Remus wraps himself in Sirius’ arms in a way that he can see Sirius’ face and the diary.  
  
“Really?” he asks, indignantly, “that is what you think of me, oh great Savior of England and mighty Lord of the Underworld? You believe I would be fooled by a silly boy’s evil journal?”  
  
Sirius rolls his eyes. Remus leans against him, allowing himself this comfort. Sirius has been giving it, but he has not often accepted it.   
  
“Actually, I have a concern,” Remus states, pulling Sirius around the desk so that he is facing the diary. “We have welcomed a part of Riddle into our home. Will that break the Fidelius Charm?”  
  
Sirius squints at the notebook and then knits his bow in concern. “We didn’t tell it our location.”  
  
“But what if Voldemort can locate these things? What if he can feel them?”  
  
“Then he would have felt when the ring and the locket were destroyed.”  
  
Remus shakes his head and sinks into his chair. “I’m still not sure that the Killing Curse destroys them. Plus, we have no evidence that the ring was a Horcrux or if it just protected you because of your Lord Deadness.”  
  
Sirius huffs. “I refuse to be called Lord Deadness, Moony.”  
  
Remus quirks an eyebrow. “How do you plan to stop me?” he challenges.  
  
Sirius swings into the chair and kisses Remus full on the mouth. Remus laughs and begins to push Sirius’ weight off of him and the chair. This is not acceptable; the diary is watching. Sirius grabs onto the back of the chair and holds on tight while kissing Remus’ neck repeatedly. He slides his hands across Remus’ chest and under the folds of Remus’ outer robe. The hands wander south.  
  
Remus gasps. His protests fall away. It’s been a while since Sirius has touched him so slowly and tenderly—not desperately. Remus lets his eyes fall shut. Sirius covers Remus’ chin in sloppy kisses. His knees shift away from Remus’ hips as he balances himself to adjust to his rhythm and angle on the edge of the chair. Remus’ breath is ragged. All his muscles feel on fire.   
  
“You like that, Moony?” Sirius asks, breathlessly into Remus’ ear. “I came to check on you and ensure that you weren’t working too hard.”  
  
Remus moans.   
  
“Yeah,” Sirius groans in response, speeding up his movements. “You must be. Just sitting here all day is _so hard_ on you, isn’t it?”  
  
Remus’ hips jerk forward, almost against his will, and he opens his eyes in surprise. He blinks to clear his vision. Sirius smirks and blows devilishly into the shell of Remus’ ear. Remus sighs and stares at his desktop blankly.   
  
Then Remus shouts in alarm, “Sirius!”  
  
Mistaking his cry, Sirius bites at Remus’ earlobe and hums in agreement.  
  
“Sirius!” Remus yells as he stands. Sirius stumbles, trying to regain his footing and disengage his hands.  
  
“Moony? Did I hurt you?—“ Sirius asks, bewildered.  
  
Remus wastes no time. He ignores the state of his robes and shoves his lover behind him.   
  
His eyes scan the room, counting the items. On the desk, the diary is still. Across the room, however, the cup is shifting. It scoots itself across the edge of Remus’ bookcase until it freefalls. Then, in some strange act of self-protection, it spins and rolls harmlessly onto the rug. It only lies still for a moment. Then the cup pulls itself toward the desk in a determined roll.   
  
Inside the desk, simultaneously, the locket begins to rattle. It sounds like it is attempting to open the drawer and climb out. Remus raises his wand.  
  
The diary’s pages begin to flap from beginning to end, and then back again. Words and images form near the binding. The flash past so quickly that they appear to be moving.  
  
The locket hits the inside of the drawer with such intensity that it slides opens a fraction. A portion of the chain creeps out of the gap and dangles out.   
  
“This is mad,” Sirius whispers, marking the cup’s progress and raising his wand.  
  
“Voldemort must be calling them home,” Remus muses, pulling his robes shut again.  
  
“He must know then,” Sirius continues, rubbing at his face. “He knows that we have them.”  
  
“We also know that the locket isn’t dead,” Remus replies.  
  
The two back toward the door with their wands readied.  
  
“This is like a bad joke,” Sirius muses darkly. Remus looks at Sirius in disbelief. “A locket, a diary, and a cup walk into a bar—“  
  
“Is Voldemort the barkeep?” Remus asks, noting that the cup has made a pretty decent distance in a very short period of time.  
  
The question floors Sirius. His wand tremors and lowers a fraction as his mind seems to be spinning to answer the question.   
  
“Tell me again,” he says slowly, measuring his words, “how a Horcrux works?”  
  
Remus shakes his head a little, but narrows his eyes at the desk where the locket seems to be making progress with the drawer. “We never found out. There are some dark texts written about them, but I don’t have a clue where to find them. You know that the Ministry under Crouch would never have kept anything remotely malignant. Or at least they haven’t advertised about it. All we know that it’s somehow related to immortality,” he concludes. His words are inadequate when faced with this large of a problem.  
  
The locket’s chain jangles as if it has finally managed to climb out, but Remus can’t see it to be sure.   
  
“Immortality wrapped up in something so breakable,” Sirius muses as he strides forward. He positions his booted foot overtop the delicate china. Remus grabs for him, but he’s moving so confidently, he is quickly out of reach. Remus stumbles behind him with his wand arm taunt.  
  
“Sirius, the last time one of these felt endangered, it ripped a roof off,” Remus warns.  
  
Sirius rests his boot tread on the cup. The cup begins to growl.  
  
“If,” Sirius’ voice lends itself to theory, and Remus listens, “the items are aware of our existence, of one another, and of the threat of their lives—“  
  
The cup begins to threaten, in a graceful but slimy voice, “You Mudblood loving scum—“  
  
“—then they must have some sort of,” Sirius waves his wand as if trying to catch the elusive word he is looking for.   
  
“Identity,” James concludes from behind them.  
  
Remus only turns a fraction, still guarding the items, but acknowledging his friend. James is leaning on a cane, but his wand is drawn and Remus can taste his magic mixing in the air with Sirius’ and his.   
  
“Exactly,” Sirius says, curtly. “In theory,” he continues, transferring some of his weight onto the cup, “it will defend itself.”  
  
“Easy, Padfoot,” James warns, “when I even thought about ways to destroy one of them it nearly killed my son… and you.”  
  
“I can easily destroy you,” the cup threatens, silkily. “You cannot defeat me simply because of some foolhardy prophesy—“  
  
Sirius straightens immediately and stumbles backward from the cup. Both James and Remus hurry to his side, inspecting Sirius for damage.  
  
“The prophesy,” Sirius whispers. “What if…”  
  
His voice drifts off and he stumbles toward the rolls of blueprints for the Ministry of Magic. His stride is like a man awakening from a dream, Remus muses.  
  
“We planned an attack…” he whispers distractedly.  
  
“But there’s no value in that unless these are destroyed,” James clarifies, gesturing at the flapping diary with his wand.  
  
Sirius yanks back pages of the blueprints, tossing the unnecessary pages over his shoulder dramatically.  
  
“Here!” he exclaims, jabbing at a corner of the Ministry basement with his finger.   
  
“’The Death Chamber’,” James reads, clearly unclear of the implications.   
  
Remus feels an icy chill of dread down his neck. “A direct entryway to Hades,” he whispers, as he searches Sirius’s face for an explanation.  
  
“They have identity,” Sirius offers, looking toward the diary and cup, “so they must have some sort of connection to Voldemort—“  
  
“If that is true,” Remus snaps, gesturing for silence, “then he can hear us now.”  
  
The three men exit the room and close the door to Remus’ office.   
  
“You think by tossing them in?” James asks, in one of those infuriating half questions that the he and Sirius have always been able to communicate through.  
  
“We’ll have to break into the Ministry itself,” Sirius replies, tapping his wand into the palm of his hand.  
  
Remus flexes his shoulders. “Since Voldemort has taken Azkaban as his headquarters, I think the Ministry will be mostly empty, but well warded.”  
  
James wrinkles his brow. “How much so?” he asks.  
  
Remus shakes his head indecisively. “I can’t say for certain, but in Voldemort’s position, would you leave the heart of the former Ministry without defenses?”  
  
James leans heavily on his cane. Sirius stares at the door to Remus’ office, his eyes squinting as if he can see something that isn’t there.   
  
“We need to gather as many people as possible,” Remus instructs, cautiously. “We have the blueprints and an entry strategy—but we need firepower.”  
  
A shadow crosses Sirius’ face as he clarifies, “you mean cannon fodder.”  
  
Sirius faces Remus then, with a humorless smile. James sighs.  
  
“It seems hopeless, Pads, but what else can we do?” he asks, with a tired shrug.  
  
Sirius punches James in the shoulder, but there is little energy in it. “You’re right. I just… right, well, let’s go save the world.”  
  
“Hey, Savior of the Wizarding World,” James jests, but then looks serious, “let’s.”  
  
Sirius smiles, but it looks forced.   
  
  
_1:28 A.M. May 11, 1981_  
  
To say that Sirius is reluctant to lead people into the Ministry of Magic is an understatement. James and Remus argue with him, with input from Andomeda, Ted, and Lily, for nearly two hours before they convince him to rally the Order.   
  
“I can do this alone,” he asserts repeatedly.  
  
“Right,” Remus yells, kicking the coffee table over, “just like last time when you went into a battle all by yourself? Because that was very productive.”  
  
“Remus,” Lily soothes, reaching out her hand to touch his arm.  
  
“I have enough bodies to bury as a result of this damn war!” Sirius shouts in return, his arms raised above his head.  
  
“To hell with this,” James snarls and points his wand out the window into the dark sky. “Assemble the Warriors of Israel!” he commands.   
  
Remus, Lily, and Sirius all ignore their wands as tiny, wispy phoenixes drift out of their tips. Sirius glares at James and at the painting above the mantle. Remus squares his shoulders and seethes.  
  
“They’ll go to the Drunken Duck,” Lily says, worried.   
  
“It’s safe,” James declares. “We have to assume that Voldemort always knew that was our headquarters. If we’re lucky he’ll assume we’d never return there.”  
  
“If we’re lucky,” Ted replies, rubbing his forehead anxiously.   
  
“Then let’s get going,” Remus orders, grabbing a cloak from the hook near the door. His anger drains away as the reality of their next few hours takes hold of him.  
  
As the others pack a few things for the children and some food, Remus follows Sirius upstairs to their bedroom. Sirius stares at their bed for a long moment before moving to his side and stripping the pillow of its case. Remus stands in the doorway and watches.   
  
Sirius looks as though he’s going to throw an angry tantrum again and shove past his lover, but instead, he simply sinks onto the foot of the bed. He reaches out his hand to Remus. Remus walks toward him and takes the offered hand between his two.  
  
Beyond their door, the house is alive with hurried footsteps and frenzied packing. Remus rubs a small circle on the back of Sirius’ hand with his thumb.  
  
“C’mon, Padfoot,” Remus whispers, pulling Sirius to his feet.   
  
Sirius allows himself to be tugged forward, but he still seems to stall for time.   
  
“Remus,” he says, in a gruff quiet, “do you ever just…”  
  
Remus stares into Sirius’ eyes and finds his lover is looking rather desperate.   
  
“Just what?” Remus asks, his stomach churning with anxiety.  
  
“Know something. Know something is about to happen.”  
  
Remus squeezes Sirius’ hand tightly from both the top and bottom. Lily enters the room, but stops in the doorway.  
  
“It’s time,” she announces, apologetically.  
  
Sirius stiffens and nods. “Of course.”  
  
Remus tries to keep his hold on his lover, but Sirius is bound to collect the Horcruxes. As Sirius passes him, he caresses Remus’ cheek with his knuckles. Remus follows after him, as if he is simply helping Sirius pay bills on any other day. He and Lily stand shoulder-to-shoulder as Sirius stuffs the unwilling Horcruxes into the pillowcase. Then, without any sort of dramatic exit, the group departs for the abandoned pub in Godric’s Hollow.   
  
_1:48 A.M. May 11, 1981_  
  
“Steady,” Ted whispers sternly to the group.   
  
He leans around the corner of the stone building and peers into the foggy alleyway. The group bunches together, each gripping his or her wand nervously. At Remus’ side, Andromeda shifts Nymphadora’s weight. The child had woken when they had removed her from bed, but she had long since fallen back to sleep. The hour is dark and cold, and all they want is inside the safety of walls.   
  
Ted nods to James. James, limping without his cane, hurries across the exposed alley and begins to unwind the complicated wards on the pub’s main entrance. The locking charms click open in a matter of seconds, but in the open air, time slows. Remus tastes the air. It is damp and reminds him of all the fear he has experienced in these past months.  
  
James motions to Remus and the two men enter the abandoned building first, searching for signs of broken wards or traps. The others follow slowly, prepared to flee at any sign of danger. Lily bounces Harry in her arms, even though the baby is already asleep. Her wand is braced against the baby’s spine, but ready for use. Sirius scans the alley and the buildings around them. Tension swirls in the fog.  
  
Then Remus comes back to the doorway with a smile and motions them into the building. They hurry inside with relief. Ted seals the door behind them.   
  
Somewhere in his brain, Remus realizes that tonight will be one of the larger battles of this war. The Battle of Port Meadow was short lived—forty minutes at the most. The Rescue at Azkaban took almost two hours. But this battle promises to burn into the daylight and Remus refuses to acknowledge the low chances of survival.   
  
Instead, Remus keeps himself busy by dusting tables, finding camp beds for the children to sleep on, and altering the wards on the building. Around him, people scurry. James sets a new password for the floo. Lily and Andromeda arrange a meeting area. Ted starts coffee. Then the Weasleys arrive and all the children are put to bed.   
  
The Order arrives early and simultaneously, it seems. It’s disorganized and chaotic. There are new war wounds to announce and new faces to be greeted and welcomed. There are fears to be ignored. The volume swells around him. Friends hug. Babies cry. People fret.  
  
In the rush of the activity, Remus sees him.  
  
Sirius is across the room, sitting on the stairs, staring into space. His forehead is wrinkled and his eyes dark with distant thoughts. Remus joins him hesitantly. When he sits on the step below Sirius’s knees, however, Sirius comes out of his trance. He pulls Remus closer and encourages Remus to rest his head on his lap. He strokes Remus’ hair tenderly. Remus’ throat tightens.  
  
“All this madness ends today,” Sirius says in barely a whisper.   
  
Remus shifts so he can turn his head and look up at Sirius. Sirius is staring down at him. There is nothing but promise reflected in Sirius’ eyes. His fingers trace Remus’ ear and then along his chin as if he was memorizing the angles of Remus’ face. Time slows around them. Remus would close his eyes and bask in this moment, but the purity of the expression in Sirius’s eyes is just too beautiful. He is afraid to blink and miss a second of it.  
  
“The war ends today,” Sirius promises.   
  
Remus has forgotten about the others in the room, until Sirius’ body tenses. He is suddenly aware of how quiet the room is. He can hear Mad Eye shift his weight onto his wooden leg. Everyone is frozen, watching them.   
  
“There’s a portal to the underworld in the Ministry’s lower floors,” Sirius explains to them all, but his eyes never leave Remus’ face. “We’ll attempt to remain unseen for as long as possible, but I’m fairly sure that Voldemort will have this Death Chamber guarded. We’ll make our stand there. We’ll fight. If Riddle is to die, it’s the only place I’ll be strong enough to do it.”  
  
In his peripheral vision, Remus sees James wrap his arm around Lily and protect their unborn child with his other hand. Arthur and Molly stand over their brood. Hagrid stuffs his hands into his pockets.   
  
Remus licks his lips and takes a breath. He is going to ask for clarification, but Sirius speaks first.  
  
“Remus,” Sirius whispers. Although he’s only speaking to his lover, his voice carries across the silent room. “I love you. I want you to know that.”  
  
The tightening in Remus’ throat is choking him.   
  
“I love you too, Padfoot,” he says, hoarsely.   
  
“I’m going to die today, Moony,” Sirius continues.   
  
There is earnest affection reflected there, both in Sirius’ face and his words. There is possibly more love in that gaze than in any and all the months before this. Remus remembers the night that James discovered them and how Sirius had practically bounced about with joy of returned affections. He thinks of the adoration Sirius had expressed as they had kissed in the night at Neville’s bedside. Never in these years of friendship and beyond had Sirius looked at him with such open ardor.   
  
Remus concentrates on Sirius’ face so that he can ignore the words hanging in their air between them. He pretends to not hear the reaction of those around them—the gasps and cries.  
  
Instead, he reaches up and touches Sirius’s chin with his thumb.  
  
“You can’t follow me, Remus,” Sirius continues, wrapping his hand around Remus’. “It’s not your time today, do you understand me?”  
  
Remus blinks and struggles to sit up. The words are sinking in.  
  
“How do you know?” he asks, with hysteria building.   
  
Sirius just cups Remus’ cheek and smiles bitterly. “I love you. I love you more than anything. I had no idea that I could love someone so very much. Without you, nothing would have meant anything.”  
  
Remus grabs Sirius and holds him tightly. “Don’t do this,” he whispers, his voice filled with tears. “Don’t you dare say goodbye to me, you bastard.”  
  
And suddenly, Remus understands the last couple of weeks. While he spent his time observing Riddle’s diary, Sirius wanted to be together because he knew his time was short. Remus tightens his grip and presses his face into Sirius’s chest. Sirius strokes his hands down Remus’ back. He continues to whisper dreams and promises into Remus’ hair. But to Remus, these are just words.  
  
In his mind, he replays the night months ago when Sirius commanded the Dead to show Peter his death. He remembers sitting in that doorway worrying over the prophesy: Voldemort or Black? And, now, it seems, Sirius knows how it will end.  
  
“I won’t lose you only to have him win the war,” Remus cries, surprised to find himself sobbing.  
  
“He won’t win, Moony,” Sirius assures, rocking Remus and pressing kisses to his hair. “Merlin, I love you.”  
  
Remus is tempted to Apparate them both away right then. He could stun Sirius and hide him in mountains somewhere. They could live on rats in a cave. What would the cuisine matter? They’d be together and alive!   
  
Behind him he hears Lily sob. “Sirius,” she cries, “we have to go soon.”  
  
The dreams of escape fall away. There is no running for him; it’s in his nature to do the right thing. He drags in a broken breath and wills his tears away. He cannot escape his character any more than Sirius can escape his destiny.   
  
Sirius kisses Remus’ forehead before leaning over further and finding Remus’ mouth. The kiss is long. Remus wishes that it held all the passion, longing, love, and hope that they had for one another, but instead, it tastes of bitter fear.   
  
They stand together, arms still around the other. Once they leave the stairs and step onto the floor of the pub, James and Lily come to them and the four hold one another. Sirius kisses Lily’s cheek and touches his pregnant middle. James reaches across their huddle and grabs the back of Sirius’s head. He pulls their foreheads together. Lily cries. Remus squeezes Sirius to him again.  
  
Then Sirius pulls away from them and looks at each in turn.   
  
“I love you,” he tells them each, sincerely, and he steps away from them.  
  
Then, Sirius wipes his eyes on his sleeve and begins to give orders. He shows blueprints and routes. He divides them into groups. Remus stands next to Lily and James, hearing his instructions. He is chilled by the realization that Sirius is no longer his lover or his friend.   
  
Instead, he becomes their leader, their Chosen One, their sacrifice.   
  
  
_3:35 A.M. May 11, 1981_  
  
The Ministry only has one foyer, so regardless how it is entered, everyone will end up in the same place. This concerns Alastor Moody the most.   
  
“The whole place was designed to be easily fortified against an intrusion—“  
  
“Who knew that the good guys would be the intruders,” Lily jests.   
  
“—so we’ll just have to maintain… Constant Vigilance!” the ex-Auror insists.  
  
The group faces him in surprise. Moody blanches.  
  
“I seem to have found my catchphrase,” he whispers, sadly. His eyes search the group for the deceased Prewett twins.   
  
“They’d have been proud,” Arthur assures, patting the smaller man on the back.  
  
Moody clears his throat and looks away, willing his grief away.  
  
“It’s the only way in,” James announces, tapping the blueprints with his knuckle.   
  
“Then we’re off,” Andromeda announces sensibly.   
  
The journey into the Ministry is silent. Remus is grateful that Sirius has not divided their family when he assigned groups. He looks over at James and Lily, holding hands and waiting their turn to enter the floo. He wishes that Lily would stay here and protect her children, but Remus knows that if in her position he would fight as well. It’s the responsibility of every parent to ensure their children a decent world to live in.  
  
As they step out of the floo into the Ministry’s Atrium, Remus sees Marlene cross herself. Her lips move as she prays, but there is no sound. He moves from her side to stand at Sirius’ left. James limps to Sirius’ right. Remus sees Lily shake her hair out of her face as she positions herself at James’ elbow. Their footsteps echo hollowly on the wooden floor. They lead the group forward.   
  
“There are no guards,” Mad-Eye whispers as his magic eye whirls around the fountain. “And no wards.”  
  
James looks at Sirius sideways, his voice stiff. “This is too easy.”  
  
“I think he knows we’re here,” Sirius says, steadily. His Adam’s apple bobs as he swallows.   
  
The fountain babbles happily, but it sounds too loud even now. Each Order member holds his or her breath, trying to hear the impending attack.   
  
“Is there another way down?” Remus asks, eyeing the elevators wearily. “He’ll expect us that way.”  
  
“Nope,” Mad-Eye replies, stomping forward and pressing the button. “We’ll just have to anticipate the attack.”  
  
The Order shifts, each uneasy. The Atrium is filled with shadow. When coupled with this level of anxiety, they trick the eye. Andromeda circles slowly, eyeing the dark corners of the Atrium. Her breathing is uneasy. Ted steps into her peripheral vision and rests his hand on her wrist. He smiles tightly.   
  
“Will Molly be alright with all of those kids?” she asks, still staring into the shadows.  
  
Arthur grimaces, but doesn’t answer. No one wants to acknowledge the fact that if none of them return Molly will be the guardian to two additional children.  
  
The elevator lowers steadily toward their floor. The group readies their wands when the doors of the elevators ding and open. There is no one inside. Someone laughs uneasily from behind Remus.   
  
They all shift and shake their heads. It’s like anticipating the fall on a Muggle roller coaster too soon. Remus closes his eyes for a long second and then steps forward, leading the group.   
  
There are so few of them that they fill the single elevator. Lily pushes the correct button and they begin to descend.   
  
Dread hangs in the air. How often have they fought? How many have they lost?   
  
And then Lily speaks.   
  
“During the second Muggle world wide war, the Americans lead a charge against the Germans on the French shore. When the boats opened, the first line of men was shot down. So the commanding officers stayed in the middle… so they had a chance to help fight.” Remus doesn’t look at her while she’s speaking so it’s sort of like listening to a prerecorded history lesson. Her voice is somber, but betrays no emotion.  
  
James clears his throat. “Get behind me, Sirius,” he directs, soberly.   
  
Sirius stares at James without blinking. James straightens and stands at his full height. Sirius lifts an eyebrow.  
  
The elevator slows.   
  
Sirius steps behind James.  
  
A bell dings.   
  
Sirius raises his wand.   
  
The Order tenses.  
  
“Steady,” Ted whispers.   
  
The doors open.  
  
Before them is an empty hallway. Andromeda exhales shakily and Elphias claps Benji on the back after Benji says “Thank Godric” breathlessly. James, Remus, and Lily step out of the elevator as if they are one being. Sirius follows on their heels. This is no moment to celebrate. Behind them Moody snarls at his troops, and Remus can hear them hurrying to keep up with the four Marauders. Remus smiles bitterly. It’s surprising that Peter is so easily replaced in their little band, and yet, it makes sense. Lily is more courageous than Wormtail ever was.  
  
Remus glances behind him at Sirius. His eyes are locked on the solitary door beyond James’s shoulder. James has memorized the blueprints, just like he memorized the floor plans of Hogwarts when the Marauders created their map. While Sirius commands, James directs this charge. Remus grips his wand tighter and fists his other hand; it’s the only way he can keep himself for reaching for Sirius’ hand.   
  
They are walking to their demise, he knows. While Sirius wants him to live, Remus understands that his life as he knows it will end if Sirius dies. The group slows at the door. Remus reaches for the door handle, but does not turn it. He looks to Sirius.   
  
Sirius’ face is solemn and masked. His eyes, however, drift to meet Remus’ gaze. As he does, a portion of the mask falls away and Sirius’ emotions shine through his eyes. His lover seems broken, somehow. Remus holds his breath, knowing, if he doesn’t, he will cry out.   
  
The mask is replaced when Sirius nods. Taking a deep breath, Remus opens the door. Inside, doors line the curved walls, moving continuously around the Order.   
  
“Which one?” Hagrid asks from behind the Marauders.  
  
Remus looks to James, who smiles bitterly. “No clue. This room wasn’t in the blueprints.”  
  
Sirius clears his throat. “Any ideas?”  
  
“Oh for fuck’s sake,” Dorcus Meadows grumbles. “You men never ask for directions.”  
  
She points her wand at the doors and commands, “Take us to the Death Chamber.”  
  
The doors spin slower and then come to a stop. One door unlocks and seems to pop open. A few people chuckle.  
  
“Thank you, Dorcus,” someone says. Sirius smirks bitterly.   
  
“To arms,” he whispers gruffly.   
  
The Order reacts instantly, all readying their magic as they advance to the door. They line along the sides, using the stones as a shield. Lily slides closer to the door and peeks through the gap. She turns back to her husband and shakes her head no. James inches closer and slides his wand into the gap and pulls the door open wider. He checks the perimeter of the room before he opens the door all the way.  
  
It is dimly lit, but Remus can make out the specifics. In the center of a rectangular stone amphitheater, there is a stone arch from which a tired, black veil hangs. The Order fans out, all hopping down the long stone steps. They advance toward the dais because Sirius does, as if drawn to it. Remus, Lily, and James stay at his side as he descends the steps and then climbs to the portal. James slows as his knee throbs with the repeated movements. Remus too, hesitates when presented with the opportunity to examine the Veil up close. Lily, however, stays at Sirius’ side as he marches up to it and looks all around it.  
  
“I hear voices,” James whispers to Remus. Both men eye the Veil with trepidation.  
  
“I do, too,” Remus replies.  
  
Lily turns back toward James and looks at him in alarm. “Can you understand them? I can’t.”  
  
James shrugs, watching the slow ripple of the Veil. Remus continues to watch Sirius circle the archway cautiously. Then, suddenly, he stops and stares into the portal. Remus moves forward, with his magic ready.  
  
“Hello, Regulus,” Sirius says in surprise.   
  
James and Remus exchange concerned glances. Lily steps backward toward Remus. Sirius cocks his head to the left before laughing. He grins at the three near the edge of the dais.   
  
“You can’t see him, can you?” he asks rhetorically.  
  
He then turns back to the empty space before the Veil and continues to talk. His voice is slightly annoyed when he speaks. “Well, I had to check, didn’t I? Maybe you’re visible to certain people—“  
  
James rolls his wand between his fingers. “Great, he can see the Dead now.”  
  
“It is the portal to the Underworld,” Remus replies. He is surprised at the raw quality of his voice. Lily lays her hand on Remus’ arm.   
  
“This is going to work out,” James promises, but his voice cracks as he says it. He holds the pillowcase out to Sirius. Sirius walks back to him and takes it.  
  
“What do you think, Reg?” Sirius asks the empty air. “If I toss them in…” he swings the pillowcase toward the inside of the Veil.   
  
Then suddenly Sirius whips around as if looking for something. “To Arms!” he shouts. “Behind the dais! Now!” he commands his family.  
  
But his warning is too late. As his words reverberate on the stone walls, spells are fired at the Order.   
  
“The Anti-Apparation Jinx has been lifted!” Moody yells, shoving Andromeda out of the path of a curse.   
  
The Death Eaters appear out of thin air, firing Unforgivable Curses as they arrive. The Order ducks, rolls, and returns fire, but there is nothing of substance to hide behind.   
  
“The Anti-Disapparation?” James queries at a yell, while returning a curse at an unknown Death Eater.  
  
Ted shakes his head no, while hexing the nearest masked face. Remus ducks around the dais and begins to duel with a tall Death Eater. He doesn’t care who it is; he just wants them to die. Lily is behind him, matching someone spell for spell. The light of spells heats and illuminates the Death Chamber. Charms and curses bounce off the ancient walls and ricochet at both friend and foe. Stone crumbles. Someone screams.  
  
Remus tunes it all out and focuses his magic.   
  
“ _Confringo_!” he shouts, and grimaces when the Death Eater’s innards splatter on his robes. There is no time for celebration, however; the Order is greatly outnumbered and some of the wizards and witches present are no apt duelers. As Remus runs across the dais to assist one of the Order’s new recruits, he spots the locket.   
  
It has escaped its confines in the pillowcase and is using its chain to pull itself away from the Archway and toward one of the Death Eaters. Remus ducks to the left to avoid losing his head to a spell. In the same movement, he grabs the locket and throws it through the Veil. The locket roars in anger and begins to emit its earsplitting ring. But the noise is suddenly gone. Remus expects to hear the clatter of gold against stone on the other side. But instead, there is only the sound of battle. The Veil blows like laundry on a line. The locket is gone.   
  
Remus sighs with relief, and then races to the witch’s side. It takes two curses to fall that Death Eater. Remus nods at the witch, who grins.   
  
“Thanks. I’m Sarah,” she offers, before firing a jinx at an in-coming foe.   
  
“Remus,” he assures, and turns to find another foe.  
  
Instead, he stops dead.  
  
Sirius is standing in front of the dais. He is holding his wand, but it is at his side. Further up the steps, not twenty meters away, stands Voldemort. He grins.  
  
The battle slows as people notice the presence of the Dark Lord.  
  
“Well, hello, pet,” Voldemort coos, darkly. He advances on Sirius.  
  
Those Death Eaters not engaged in a duel bow to their Lord. James takes the opportunity to begin to curse them. Remus joins in. They are easy targets; it’s rather like shooting cans off a fence. Together they kill seven. The ease of these deaths, however, is stopped when other Death Eaters charge toward the two Marauders. Remus must tear his focus from his lover and focus on this duel.   
  
This Death Eater’s mask is a lazy sneer. It shines in the menacing light of the spells of the battle.  
  
“Still buggering my cousin?” the Death Eater giggles madly.   
  
“Bellatrix, what a pleasure,” Remus replies once he recognizes her. Without hesitation, he sets her feet on fire.  
  
Beside them, Remus can hear Sirius taunt Voldemort.  
  
“Good morrow, your Lordship!” he calls, lying on his posh enunciation. “Do you quarrel, sir?”   
  
Remus can’t help but laugh aloud. He hears Lily snicker as well. Only Sirius Black would taunt the Darkest Wizard of their time with Shakespeare. Voldemort, however, will not rise to such. He smiles, nastily.  
  
“You are cheeky, aren’t you?” Voldemort asks, clearly annoyed.  
  
Bellatrix shrieks as her feet begin to burn. “You nasty Dark Creature!” she roars, ripping her mask away from her face. “ _Crucio_!”   
  
Remus cannot block the spell fast enough. His body is engulfed with pain. His muscles contract and strain. His mind locks up as all of his synapses fire at once. And then, suddenly, the pain stops. He drags in a ragged breath and opens his eyes.   
  
The new Order member, Sarah, is dueling with Bellatrix now.   
  
“You fucking cunt!” she shouts, as she shatters Bellatrix’s knee with a spell.  
  
Remus lets his head fall back to the floor as his muscles come back to his control. His hearing fades in and out, but in those select moments he hears Sirius taunting the Dark Lord.  
  
“I’ve got your diary here, little girl,” he calls, mockingly to his nemesis.  
  
Remus opens his eyes and watches Sirius dangle the diary by the back cover. The pages flap uselessly.   
  
“But a big, bad Dark Lord like you won’t need this, will you? It’s probably embarrassing. I’ll help you out with that,” Sirius offers, giving the diary a toss into the Archway.  
  
Voldemort roars and runs forward. “You insolent gnat!” he yells.   
  
Remus grins and climbs to his feet. Sarah is holding Bellatrix’s wand, and looking at her in mock pity. Bellatrix staggers to her feet. Remus kicks Bellatrix in the small of her back with as much power as he can. She lurches forward from the force and drops too much weight onto her broken leg. She cries out in pain and trips on the uneven surface of the dais and stumbles forward.   
  
At the same moment, Sirius snarls and steps up to meet the running Voldemort.   
  
And then, it’s like moving through water. Remus sees Bellatrix’s trajectory. And then he sees the Resurrection Stone ring on her finger. He rushes forward, making a swipe for her cloke. The fabric slides through his fingers. She collides with Sirius. He loses his balance and grabs her around the waist.  
  
And together, the cousins fall through the Veil.  
  
The Veil flaps as if settling from a wind.   
  
And Sirius is gone.  
  
James is limping toward the Veil and Lily is screaming. All around Remus, the Order is yelling and fighting for their lives. He takes in James’ anguish and Lily’s disbelief. He sees Sarah’s terror. Alastor looks broken and Benji closes his eyes in despair. But all of it seems distant to Remus.  
  
The war is lost.   
  
But worst of all, for Remus anyway, Sirius lied. He died, as promised, but Voldemort did not. In fact, the Dark Lord is laughing. He raises his wand above his head and casts an unknown spell. Out of the tip of his wand a smoky, green snake winds and curls. It rises to the ceiling and part of the smoke morphs into a skull. Remus looks away before the snake can intertwine its way into the skull.  
  
The Death Eaters are cheering and launching into the battle with gusto. Remus, however, can find no reason to fight. He walks toward the dais, dejected. The tattered black Veil whispers to him. He stares into its depths. He steps forward.  
  
And kicks a growling china cup.   
  
The cup sneers. Still numb, Remus leans over and picks it up.  
  
“You would be wise, werewolf, to return that to me,” a beautiful, but sinister voice advises.  
  
Remus can see Voldemort on the other side of the Archway, but the Veil obscures part of him. Voldemort trains his wand on Remus’ chest.  
  
“Give it here,” Voldemort commands, with a voice that seeks respect.  
  
Remus offers no taunt or heroic epic vow. He just tosses the cup underhanded into the depths of the Veil. He doesn’t even smirk.   
  
Voldemort’s eyes are black like the Veil, Remus notes. He also appears to be very angry. The Dark Lord’s lips begin to form the words of the Killing Curse.   
  
He is cut off, however, when the Veil is pulled back and a very ghostly looking Regulus Black steps out. Voldemort takes a surprised step in retreat.  
  
“I wouldn’t do that,” Regulus advises dryly. “Sirius will be here in about ten seconds, and if you kill Lupin, he will be exceedingly put out. Trust me.”  
  
Voldemort raises his wand at the specter. “I have not raised you!” he shouts in concern.  
  
“I’m not an Inferi,” Regulus replies, undisturbed.  
  
“Nor am I,” Albus Dumbledore replies as he and several other very dead wizards exit the Veil. “However, we are here. We’ve come to destroy you. Now, you could make this much simpler for all of us if you would ask your minions to put down their wands.”  
  
Voldemort stares at the five ghosts before him. He opens his mouth, but no words escape. All around them, the battle has stopped. Wands remain trained, but no one is casting spells. They are simply too transfixed on the Archway.  
  
More ghosts pour out of the Veil. Remus sees the Potters and their old Divinations professor. His father and grandfather walk shoulder-to-shoulder out onto the dais. Orion Black holds the Veil aside for his mother-in-law’s exit. The Death Chamber quickly fills with the Dead.   
  
The Death Eaters are calling to each other in concern. Alastor makes a hand gesture and the Order regroups around him. The Death Chamber divides by allegiance. With the exception of Remus and Voldemort, who stand in the center on the dais, the Dead separate the enemies.  
  
“Hmm,” Gideon Prewett begins, leaning on his dead brother, “the Lord of the Dead is coming.”  
  
“Yep,” his brother agrees with a grin. “That he is.”  
  
The Dead turn expectantly toward the Archway.  
  
It begins to shake. The ancient stones groan and tremble. The Veil blows as if in a hurricane. Lily moves to James’ side. Remus holds his breath.  
  
It cannot be, he thinks. But hope blooms in his heart.  
  
The Veil floats up and aside from the Archway. A blinding light shines from the stones of the portal.  
  
And Padfoot, the Grim, leaps out of the Archway.   
  
His paws touch the stones at the base of the Archway, giving him speed to jump. In mid-stride, he transforms.   
  
Sirius Black, clad in a long, black robe, stands on the dais, illuminated by a light from Hades. The wind from the Veil weaves his hair around his face and blows his robe like wings of an archangel. The eerie light from the Veil outlines his form and casts his shadow down over Voldemort. Unlike the Dead, he has substance; he has his body. He wears the Resurrection Stone on his finger and is bearing a sickle. His wand is ready and trained on Voldemort.  
  
“I am Thantos!” Sirius announces, loudly. “Death bringer! The Grim! And I am here to collect your soul, Tom Riddle.”  
  
The Order yells in joy, but Lily’s cry carries over them all. “Kill that fucker, Sirius!” she screams.   
  
Voldemort recoils and then yells to his Death Eaters. “Kill him! Kill them all!”   
  
The begin Death Eaters launch their attacks. Without concern, Sirius looks to Regulus. The younger brother nods to the elder.  
  
“Attack!” Regulus yells. His order is carried out faithfully. The Dead circle and pounce on the Death Eaters. Those loyal to the Dark Lord freeze in mid-breath. The Dead simply touch them and they dissolve to ash, dead.  
  
Remus sees his gentle mother reduce Avery to nothing. Somehow, he is not repulsed. He lets his wand fall slack in his hand. There is no one left for him to fight. It’s up to Sirius now. His eyes linger on the muscled line of Sirius’ shoulder.  
  
Voldemort rages and turns on Sirius. His robes whip around his pale arm and expose his frail looking wrists. He looks close to death, but there is power in his voice.   
  
His shout of “ _Avada Kedavra_!” echoes in the Chamber.  
  
Sirius looks amused.  
  
He points his sickle at the spell. It freezes in the air. The spell glows a sickly and eerie green. It circles around itself forming a tight sphere.   
  
Then it turns around and hits Voldemort square in the chest.  
  
His eyes open wide in death and as he falls to the ground, he is reduced to ash.  
  
The Order explodes in cheers. Remus is engulfed in a hug. Lily and James are kissing over his shoulder, and he clutches James’s waist.  
  
“Holy fuck! Holy fuck! Holy fuck!” James repeats again and again between his wife’s kisses.   
  
Remus just laughs. He turns and looks over his shoulder. In the center of wild celebration, Sirius is standing on the dais, leaning on his sickle. His smile is boyish and mischievous.  
  
“Miss me?” he mouths to Remus, tucking his wand in his robe’s sleeve.  
  
Remus abandons the Potters and walks toward Sirius, as if in a trance. He can’t take his eyes off Sirius’ face. He stops directly in front of Sirius, and tries to form words.  
  
“It’s okay, Moony,” Sirius whispers, as he reaches out and cups Remus’ face. “I’m still here.”  
  
Remus grabs him forcefully and kisses him hard. Around them people wolf whistle and make lewd comments, but Remus ignores them all. Sirius wraps his arms around Remus tightly. Remus ignores the sickle that is digging into his spine.  
  
“You did it,” Remus whispers, joyfully. “You did it, Padfoot!”  
  
“Hmp. He had help,” Regulus grumbles as he leans against Sirius’ shoulder.   
  
“Fat lot you did _in life_ ,” Sirius snaps, facing his brother without releasing his lover. “I’m not sure that this counts.”  
  
“I could have said no,” Regulus pouts. “Your idiot rat friend did.”  
  
“That’s because he’s an idiot,” Sirius replies. Sirius smiles at Remus and releases him. “I need a moment.” Remus nods hesitantly. Sirius smiles reassuringly.  
  
Then he raises his voice, “Dearest Dead, please, give your greetings to your living here and then return to your rest. I am humbled and grateful for your help. I am in your service.”  
  
Remus looks at Sirius in awe. These are not the words of one quarter of the Marauders. Sirius seems to read his thoughts and shrugs. “I’m their Lord, I ought to at least be noble about it.”  
  
“You sounded pretty poncy to me,” James reflects as he and his wife join them. James and Sirius embrace tightly. James pounds Sirius on the back.  
  
“Good job, old man,” he exclaimes proudly. Lily latches on next, weeping happily into her pseudo brother-in-law’s neck.  
  
“Regulus, how are you?” Lily inquires, wiping her eyes.  
  
Regulus appears to blush. “I’m well, thank you. I’m sorry I couldn’t explain the locket to you… I did the best I could.”  
  
“You did just fine, son,” Orion states as he joined the group. He clasps Regulus’ shoulder. “Sirius, your mother should join me soon.”   
  
“Father,” Sirius replies, suddenly very dignified, “I won’t shorten her life. She’ll come when it’s her time.”  
  
Orion lifts an eyebrow. “She’s mad, Sirius. The longer she lives the more she will defile the Black name with her raving.”  
  
Sirius stares at the dead man before him. “The Black name just achieved a different level of fame, did it not?”  
  
Orion offers no response, but bows to Sirius and reenters the Archway. Several other Dead follow. Regulus yawns. He grins at his brother.  
  
“Drop by sometime, I’ll show you around. Right then, excuse me. I’ve a train to catch,” he says with a smile. He exits into the Veil.  
  
The Marauders see their parents and old school friends. They speak to the fallen Order members. Sirius greets them each. The greetings begin to exhaust Remus, until a tall, round faced boy runs up to them.   
  
“Moony! Padfoot!” he shouts, happily. “Uncle Prongs! Hi, Aunt Lily!”   
  
Sirius and Remus have identical expressions of confusion.  
  
“Nev?” Remus asks, surprised. This is not the infant he held in the night; it is the young wizard he’d expected that infant to grow into.  
  
Neville laughs joyfully. “Yep! I’m eleven!”  
  
“You’re also a little too excited,” Augusta reprimands when she joins him. “Thank you both for looking after my grandson.”  
  
Remus doesn’t even acknowledge her. He continues to stare at Neville.  
  
“Moony,” Neville laughs, “I fought those Death Eaters! Didja see? I was so good, just like you!”  
  
“You’re so big,” Remus whispers, awed. His brain has apparently shorted out from the extreme amount of surprises in the last hour.  
  
“Of course, Moony,” Nev says, beaming. “Padfoot wouldn’t have just left me to rot. My Gram and me go on all sorts of adventures.”  
  
“Neville,” Augusta sighs, looking toward the portal, “we have to catch that train.”  
  
Nev pouts a little. “Can’t we wait a little longer?” He looks to Sirius as he begs.  
  
Sirius smiles sadly. “I can’t make all these people wait to go back to rest just because I want to spend more time with you, son.”  
  
Neville shrugs. “Yeah, I guess.”  
  
“Come along, Neville,” Augusta instructs.  
  
Nev looks earnestly at Remus. “I love you, Moony! Bye Aunt Lily! Bye Uncle Prongs! I love you, Padfoot!”  
  
And the boy and his grandmother pass through the Archway.   
  
Sirius remains on the dais speaking to the ghostly form of his Uncle Alphrad, but his friends move away. Remus sits down on a stone step, emotionally drained, and watches the last of the Dead pass back into Hades. James drops into a seat next to him and rubs at his injured leg.  
  
“Hey Moony,” he says in a tired, but happy voice, “guess what?”  
  
Remus looks at his friend. “What Prongs?”  
  
“We won.”  
  
Without another word, the two friends embrace.


	16. Epilogue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hate this epilogue and have long said I would rewrite it. Someday, I will.

_July 19, 1996_  
  
Molly Weasley hates this annual Quidditch game.   
  
She pouts as she exits the floo at the Potter’s house.   
  
“Molly!” Lily calls, exiting the kitchen and pulling Molly into a hug. Molly smiles. While she hates this party, she does love the Minister of Magic.  
  
“Hello, Minister,” she replies, happily.  
  
“None of that,” Lily scolds. “I am Lily today, thank Merlin. Please, please, please call me Lily today.”  
  
Arthur laughs. “I grow weary of Ministry myself.”  
  
Lily rolls her eyes. “Yes, but you get to tinker with Muggle goods and such.”  
  
Arthur grins. “Ah, Mrs. Potter, you’ve been good for us all.”  
  
Lily waves the compliment off. “Thank you Arthur. But let’s get to the important things! Quidditch! James and Harry are outside practically wetting themselves to play.”  
  
Molly grimaces. Of course they are. She follows her husband and the Minister of Magic out of the house. The full size Quidditch pitch is a bit opulent for her tastes—she and her husband have always struggled for money, but even if they did have it, they would never be so showy she reassures herself.  
  
She waves to her brood, all dressed in red robes and preparing to square off. She counts heads. If nothing else, this Potter picnic is nice because all of her children come home. She watches Bill stretch and Ginny examine her broom. Ron straps on his Keeper kit and the twins trade bats. Percy, Charlie, and Molly’s own personal thorn-in-side daughter-in-law are playing Chaser. She smiles and waves at them and the whole group begrudgingly waves back.  
  
Molly continues to watch them until Hermione joins her.  
  
“Why aren’t you playing, love?” she asks, straightening one of Hermione’s fly away hairs.  
  
“Not much for the sport, I’m afraid,” she replies, primly.   
  
“And you can watch Ron much better from the ground, I suppose,” Molly offers, offhandedly.  
  
Hermione flushes instantaneously. Molly giggles to herself.  
  
“Oh, look!” she offers, changing the subject, “it’s the Marauders!”  
  
Personally, she hates the team name, but then again, it is tradition (or something). Harry and his sister Ellie are squabbling as they take to the pitch. Behind them, the Lupin-Black kids are throwing grass at each other. Molly decides this is beastly. It’s jjust another spot of evidence that two men will raise absolutely manner-less children.  
  
The only problem is, Molly loves the Lupin-Black kids. Heather, the oldest, is Head Girl this year and apparently the second Beater to her cousin Ellie. Nevin, a silly name if ever Molly had heard one, rolls his eyes as he tightens his Keeper gloves. He’s one of Harry and Ron’s roommates and sharp as a tack, that one. Damon and Jason are second years, and, while not actually biological brothers, ought to be twins. They appear to be playing Chaser today. All four have a predisposed love of stupid pranks.   
  
In the beginning of their adoptions, Molly had agreed with most of Wizarding Britain that children should not live with a werewolf. Then, to make things even more gossip-worthy, it was revealed that the two oldest children were lycanthropes as well. It almost made them into a pack, Rita Skeeter had said. They’ll run wild and kill innocent people.   
  
And then, of course, the public found out that their golden Savior was the one adopting them, and, well, then it was all right somehow. Most of the UK was still pitching a fit that Professor Lupin was holding the title of DADA professor and Head of the Gryffindor House. But the Headmaster Professor Flitzwick thought it was alright, so it must be.   
  
In time, Molly had gotten over her prejudices. The rest of the world was slow.  
  
“Molly!” someone calls happily. She turns to face Sirius Black. He’s holding hands with Lupin, himself. Remus looks out at the pitch, distracted.  
  
“How are you both?” she ask pleasantly. Secretly, she’d like to run. She has never been comfortable with these two, even during the war. She just doesn’t believe that two men should be together (and that wasn’t prejudice, it was just good sense).   
  
“Fine, fine,” Sirius answers, also eyeing the pitch. He seems anxious. “Say, Molly, is James out there yet?”  
  
“I haven’t seen him,” she replies, following Sirius’ line of sight. “Is he the other Chaser?”  
  
“Oh, you know James,” Remus answers, laughing. “The match is for the children, and yet he ends up playing every year.”  
  
Remus drops Sirius’ hand to wave at Damon. Damon grins and waves back. Sirius wrings his hands, nervously.   
  
“Is anything wrong, may I ask?” she inquires, eyeing the Resurrection Stone gleaming on Sirius’ ring.  
  
“Oh, no. Nothing at all,” Remus answers innocently. He smiles sweetly. Sirius rolls his eyes.  
  
Suddenly, there is a bellow from somewhere near the pitch. Both men straighten up and look toward the man yelling.   
  
“PADFOOT! MOONY! YOU’RE DEAD!” James Potter screams. He fumbles his way out onto the pitch. His children and godchildren double over laughing. Even his wife covers her mouth to hide her giggles.  
  
James Potter is wearing a rather frilly pink dress. Both Remus and Sirius examine their work for a moment like art collectors examining a painting.  
  
“Should have done pigtails,” Remus laments with a sigh. “Well, it’s been nice talking to you, Molly.” He tips his imaginary hat.  
  
“Have a lovely day,” Sirius adds with a smile.   
  
They stroll away for a few paces and then both begin to run at full speed, laughing. James gives chase, screaming. People snap photographs. Molly shakes her head.  
  
She hates these parties.


End file.
